


Cramer Street Cases (1880)

by Cerdic519



Series: The Diaries Of Sherlock Holmes [5]
Category: Columbo, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Some Will Some Won't (1970)
Genre: Army, Disguise, England (Country), F/M, Feelings, Fire, Friendship, Ghosts, Inheritance, Justice, London, M/M, Male Prostitution, Organized Crime, Police, Politics, Slow Burn, Trains, Victorian, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:07:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 41,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29778675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: 1880MYCROFT'S MINE MYSTERY – enter Sherlock's eldest brotherTHE POISON PEN – a spin-doctor gets his come-uppanceDRAKE'S DRUM – Sherlock solves a murder a thousand miles away!SOME WILL, SOME WON'T – the Hammerford inheritanceTHE TROUBLED TAWER – a woman tries to ruin a rivalFAKE IT WILL YOU MAKE IT – LeStrade has an annoying sidekickTHE SOOTY SOLUTION – Sherlock is very deceptiveTHE FANTASTIC SPENCER JOHN GANG – a man makes a bad choiceAROUND THE HORNE – the Metropolitan Police dig themselves deeperBURNING INJUSTICE – horror in the Forest of DeanA STUDY IN SCARLET – a ghostly murder?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Series: The Diaries Of Sherlock Holmes [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2112249
Kudos: 4





	1. Mycroft's Mine Mystery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bookworm4ever81](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookworm4ever81/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> January 1880. John meets yet another of his friend's siblings, this time the rather strange Mycroft who is concerned over something that someone may have said. Or may not have said. Sherlock heads North to find that the power of the press can sometimes be used to ill ends – at least, until he takes an interest in things.

Although our next case took place at the start of 'Eighty, I first have to describe an important event that took place at the end of the previous year and just after our return from Scotland and the dramatic Musgrave Ritual case. On the last day of 'Seventy-Nine I was leafing through the mail as usual when I came across something that made me smile inwardly. I composed my features however and handed the letter over to my friend.

“What is it?” I asked.

“This is from the 'Strand' magazine, addressed to us both”, I said amusedly. “They have said that they find your transcript of the 'Gloria Scott' Case most intriguing and would like to serialize it. Subject to its reception, they may even ask you for further adventures.”

He blushed bright red. In his writing like in his 'normal' career he had proven to be something of a perfectionist, and it had taken nearly a year (and rather notably, eight chocolate cake deliveries!) before he had achieved something that he had deemed satisfactory; I would likely have been long retired had he aimed for 'good'! I had of course read it and had considered it overly dramatic if not sensationalized but had had the good sense not to sat as much. I supposed that that was what readers wanted these days. And now he was to appear in print with the first magazine that he had approached.

I had thought long and hard about allowing my friend to put our adventures into print. There were some cases for which publication would of course have been inadvisable, because innocent people might have been harmed. Then there were others which I was sure would not have been of sufficient interest to the public. But what had made me say yes was the thought that such a move would bring my friend a new income stream, which given his frequent concerns about his finances could only be a good thing.

Also there was the fact that his sudden literary success had made him happy. That was definitely a good thing.

MDCCCLXXX

I had as I have said been careful to only introduce my friend to my various siblings slowly, because no man should see that much horror in one go. However our next case would enable him to meet another of them, and even by our wide stretch of humanity, one of the odder ones.

“Mycroft wishes to see me.”

Watson yawned and looked across the breakfast-table at me. Christmas was long past and this winter was proving a harsh one, such that we kept the curtains drawn during the day to keep the heat in. Annoyingly my friend had slipped on a pavement the previous week and had sprained his ankle; his surgery had been perilously close to being difficult about it and I had had to apply a little pressure to make them give him a paid week off. He was not officially working full-time there yet but he was there almost every day, either covering for someone or to help with the extra load. A little payback was, in my opinion, long overdue, otherwise I might have to get Moira to 'take an interest' in certain aspects of their business.

“Who?” he asked, clearly bewildered.

“My eldest brother”, I said. “One of the ones in government.”

He winced.

“Not like Randall?” he asked. “Please say that he is not! The Good Lord could not repeat a mistake that egregious!”

I smiled at his distaste for the lounge-lizard.

“He is absolutely nothing like Randall”, I said. “Not a 'fixer' as that villain likes to be called; Mycroft has a quite unique position. He is a calculator.”

He looked at me in confusion.

“What?”

“None of us were lucky enough to inherit the Sight from our maternal grandmother Mary O'Reilly”, I said, “but Mycroft had partly made up for that by being a brilliant statistician. He uses his great brain to look for patterns in political developments. For example, this latest trouble in Afghanistan with the Russians sniffing towards British India. Mycroft was able to predict which places the enemy were likely to target and ensure that our defences were ready for them. It not an exact science – he can say that something has a ninety per cent chance of happening yet it might still not – but he is one reason why we are able to keep on top of things in this fast-changing world of ours.”

“Then why does he need your help?” Watson asked.

“That”, I said, “is a good question. It is either something exceedingly bad or exceedingly strange. One can only hope the latter.”

MDCCCLXXX

It also worried me that Mycroft was prepared to come round to Cramer Street, although I was relieved that we did not have to go to his usual lodgings in the Diogenes Club (this was a curious place in that, unlike most such establishments, it did actually allow men to live on its premises, and even odder in that it allowed in Mycroft!). My brother was nine years my senior, had the appearance of a funeral-director who has been first to every wake buffet, and was softly-spoken. The again he had grown up a year behind Hope, so he had spent most of his childhood being drowned out.

Watson's cynicism was catching, damn the rogue!

“I do not like calling on you like this”, Mycroft said sniffily, “and I would not have done so had not something been wrong.”

I thought that an odd thing for him to say, as he was usually very precise in his words. He had also looked suspiciously at Watson when he had entered which had annoyed me, although at least unlike Randall he had not objected to his presence. Otherwise it would have been a very short meeting.

“What exactly is wrong?” I asked.

“I do not know.”

I stared at him, wondering if I had inadvertently plunged into a parallel universe without noticing. That Mycroft of all people could say such a thing.... what on earth was going on?”

My brother sighed exasperatedly.

“I like numbers”, he said. “They explain everything, even people. But recently an article appeared in a Northern newspaper which I know to have been untrue, yet I can see no reason for the person in it having lied. Also said person is married to someone in government so it is important, at least as much as any politician is important.”

“Who is it?” I asked.

“Lady Ursula Leycett”, he said. “Ghastly trollop.”

Apparently he deemed that to be sufficient information. I looked across to my medical acquaintance who hardly ever read the society-pages of the 'Times' except when he just happened to have had a spare moment. Or twenty-five moments. Or when there was a 'y' in the day.

“She is married to Mr. Henry Leycett”, my friend said, “who is a minor official at the War Office. He is one of the gentlemen who own the 'Manchester Guardian' newspaper. She inherited the title from her late father but cannot pass it on, nor can she as a woman fully access the family estate which is I understand quite large. She tried to get round that in a legal case some years back but her cousin and heir, Mr. Stephen Newbury, defeated her in court. That was partly because she insisted that she did not need a lawyer and could mount her own defence; she is a supporter of women's suffrage although I would wager that her fellow supporters with that she were not. She does not have any children and she had this weird fetish for black-and-white clothing which.....”

He trailed off, clearly embarrassed. I bit back a smile.

“There was another mine explosion on Wednesday”, Mycroft said. “A place called the Fair Lady mine.”

I stared at him curiously. That was definitely not to the sort of thing to have interested him at all, regrettably common as such things were those days. 

He nodded at me.

“The mine is in a small village called Leycett”, he said. “What the family is named for, although their house is in nearby Newcastle. The thing is this. I know for a fact that Lady Ursula was in her house that day, but she has gone to some effort to make it appear otherwise. I want to know why.”

Unfortunately my eldest sibling had the same degree of manners when it came to asking for help as Randall, namely none. But this matter seemed curious and I decided that I would look into it. Who knew – I might even tell him my findings!

“We shall investigate this matter for you”, I said.

He looked across at Watson again, seemingly puzzled by his presence for some reason. I feared that my brother was about to make some unwise remark or other, but fortunately he did not.

MDCCCLXXX

“Motive”, Watson said once my brother had gone. “Why would the newspaper lie about such a thing, especially over someone so influential? Unless your brother was wrong?”

“Mycroft is hardly ever wrong”, I sighed, “much as it pains me to say it. No, for some reason Lady Leycett said or did something when she was in Staffordshire that day, then had to cover it up for some reason. That it happened almost immediately after the disaster at the local mine suggests that that was involved in some way, although we know that the family had no connection to it. Or did they?”

“Might it be in the Staffordshire newspapers?” he wondered. “They do sometimes cover who is taking tea with who, at least for the great and the good as they call them.”

“You mean in the society-pages?” I teased.

And there came the pout! He huffed his annoyance and picked up his book.

MDCCCLXXX

What with this ghastly fog still hanging around like a pestilential lounge-lizard of a brother, Watson was very busy at his surgery that winter which was annoying as it meant that I had to travel up to Staffordshire alone. It was not the same without him, but fortunately the London & North Western Railway got me to Stoke and then the North Staffordshire Railway, whose engines and rolling-stock were a rather alarming shade of orange, took me the short distance to Newcastle-under-Lyme. Despite the heavy industrialization of the area it was a pleasant enough town, and I went to the offices of the rather jauntily named 'Stuffy Staffie' newspaper to see if they had anything on Lady Leycett. 

The journalist to whom I spoke, a nondescript middle-aged fellow called Mr. Oswald Newman, winced when I mentioned the subject of my inquiry.

“My brother Ossie – Osbert – works up at her place”, he said, looking round fretfully almost as if he expected the subject of my inquiry to suddenly appear from somewhere. “He hates it! What do you need to know about her, sir?”

“I am not exactly sure”, I said. “But I do need to establish whether she was here or not the day after the mine explosion.”

He sighed.

“Bad business, that”, he said. “Explosives going wrong again, and over sixty dead they say. Lady Leycett wanted to buy the place a while back – there's two mines right next to each other, Fair Lady and Bang Up – but they said no. Very sensible of them, I'd have said.”

I looked at him shrewdly.

“Would your brother happen to be travelling outside of the area any time soon?” I ventured. “Say, to Stafford on his next half-day?”

“That's tomorrow, sir”, he said, understanding me well enough. “Yes, I dare say he might be, and likely on the nine o' clock service tomorrow. Her Ladyship is..... not someone to cross, if you see what I mean.”

I did.

“My own brother was puzzled by an article in a Manchester newspaper”, I said, “which claimed that she was visiting a friend in Scotland that day.”

“I don't know about that, sir”, he said. “Ossie says he hardly ever sees here even when she's there; she doesn't like to mingle with servants. But as they say, servants see most things.”

That was indeed true. I thanked him, paid him for his time and left.

MDCCCLXXX

I returned to the railway-station, wired Watson that I would be away for at least two more days, then went to my hotel. The following day I took a train to Stafford, although I did not intend to see much there except for one Mr. Osbert Newman who I did indeed meet on the train. He was almost identical to his brother despite being a few years younger, and was clearly very nervous.

“Thanks for meeting me out here, sir”, he said as we sat down in the waiting-room. “Wally said you pretty much knew what was what but needed to know if She was there that day.”

“That is true”, I said, impressed with the way he had enunciated that capital letter. “Was she?”

He nodded. Even though we were some distance from Leycett he too looked round fearfully. The so-called great and the good had a lot to answer for, making people react like this.

“See, I know Tip who runs the cab in and out of the village”, he said. “He took young Mr. Hadham, the mine-owner's son, up to the house that day but She wasn't supposed to be there. But we all knew he and she..... well, you know, sir.”

I winced. Much as I did not wish to in this instance, I knew.

“I didn't see him myself that day but I guessed he was there”, Mr. Newman said. “He married someone his dad chose for him – her family owns mines as well, or so I heard – and they pretty much hate each other. Lady Leycett didn't like us servants around anyway and she always cut to the minimum whenever she had him up.”

I thought for a moment. I could see what needed to be done easily enough here, but how to do it without endangering the livelihoods of the Newmans and this pestilential woman's other servants was the important thing.

“You were there that day?” I asked.

“Yes sir”, he said. “But I'm only a footman.”

“Did anyone come to the house while Lady Leycett had her guest there?” I asked.

“Only one of those salesmen, sir”, he said. “Selling life-insurance if I recall. I didn't let him in; she hates that sort of person.”

“And did Lady Leycett remain inside with her guest all the time?”

He shook his head.

“They have this summer-house thing”, he said distastefully. “Not that it's the weather for it but they went there for..... you know. Emily, her personal maid, she's loyal to her and she stayed in the house so she could run with a message if needed.”

I smiled at that. I could see a way forward now.

“I know that this may seem a strange question”, I said, “but how good a liar are you?”

He looked at me in astonishment.

MDCCCLXXX

I returned to Newcastle and with the servant's help made certain arrangements, then the next day I went into Stoke and looked around the acting agencies there. There were only three and typically it was the last where I found Mrs. Camilla Rache, whose agency was a small affair but who had clearly been lucky enough to have had someone who was resembled the distinctive Mrs. Leycett.

Predictably Mrs. Rache was not willing to co-operate with my inquiries. At first.

“I will be frank”, I said, rapidly losing patience with her let alone having to 'miss' her simpering. “You knowingly partook in an act of fraud. You may believe that the courts might be lenient or that a good lawyer could save you, but I can tell you otherwise. This scandal will become public one way or another, and your only hope is to approach the authorities before they approach you.”

She scowled at me (at least it stopped her simpering).

“All right”, she said. “She was on my lists, Mrs. Smith. Before you ask that's her real name. She was given a free weekend in Scotland as payment once she'd been seen around Stoke, so of course she said yes. She dolled herself up and visited an old friend of Lady Leycett's who lied about the date of their visit.”

I smiled to myself. That woman was going to be in the newspapers again very soon, and to her great discomfiture.

MDCCCLXXX

Being a generous soul I went to the offices of the 'Manchester Evening News', the 'Manchester Guardian's main rivals, and allowed them to have the story first. They were delighted to publish the story as to how one of their journalists had disguised himself as an insurance salesman and had gone to Lady Leycett's house to check up on a story but, while 'just happening to pass through the garden', had seen the married owner of the house being intimate with the son of a local mine-owner in her summer-house. A married son of a local mine-owner. Further investigations had shown that the relationship had been going on for some time, the woman having paid an acting agency for a woman dressed in her distinctive black-and-white colours to be seen miles away in Stoke while she dallied with a married man. It was I suppose her bad luck that her machinations had drawn the attention of Mycroft, and led to her exposure.

I had precisely zero sympathy. Nor, it turned out, did her husband who was less than pleased and immediately sued for a divorce, as did the wife of the mine-owner's son (after she had flattened her philandering husband at a major social event). In both cases a settlement was reached and the two disgraces to Mankind drifted off to pastures new, I neither knew now cared not where. Hopefully together; they deserved each other!

Mycroft sent round a brief note of thanks, which rather surprised me as frankly I had not even expected that much from him. Quite why he felt the need to add that reproof about my keeping things from my friend, I did not know. I knew what I was doing.

Alas! I did not.

MDCCCLXXX


	2. The Poison Pen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> February 1880. The power of the press is an important balancing force in modern society, but like all powers it can be abused. And a certain consulting-detective finds himself having some rather odd thoughts.

It was a strange time, the start of the eighties, starting much as the seventies had finished with that seemingly endless fog in London. Ostensibly the British Empire stood at its zenith and all seemed well yet the country was not at ease with itself, and it was not just the recent and unnecessary Anglo-Zulu War which was responsible for that. The previous year had seen a bad harvest and the economy seemingly running off the rails as the free-trade policies of Mr. Disraeli's government, which if they had been practised world-wide would have made Mankind's lot better all round, only being effected in Great Britain and leading to a flood of cheap imports. And the Tay Bridge disaster which had placed such a definite period at the end of our recent Musgrave Case had been a reminder that while technology was vital to the progress of the human race, it could not solve every problem.

Technology was to the fore in a small but ominous piece of news that second month of the year when a steam-ship called the 'Strathleven' arrived from Australia carrying a cargo of frozen mutton. This posed an even greater threat to the nation's beleaguered farmers and the Liberal Party under a resurgent Mr. Gladstone judged the more isolationist and protectionist mood of the country rather better than Mr. Disraeli's Conservatives. In the Midlothian Campaign (so-called after Mr. Gladstone's constituency) Great Britain saw what in retrospect was seen as the first modern political election in which speeches to large crowds and the reporting of them was used to great effect. Although as Watson so rightly said, politicians hardly needed any encouragement to start talking!

MDCCCLXXX

A few months back I had cause to meet Logan, the overly large and annoyingly smug brother who just happened to own that chain of Debating Societies (and whose lover Ajax still had that alarming way of looking at me as if he is wondering how long it might take to bury my body!). It was exceptionally generous of me since my horrible brother was _still_ providing Mother with inspiration for her stories because he was a bastard of the first order who could then plead pressures of business to avoid hearing them! 

The reason for my having to be both traumatized and alarmed arose out of one of the gentlemen who had finished his recuperation from the horrors of the Tankerville Club and wished to work at my brother's establishments. Surprisingly even the normally hyper-efficient Moira had been unable to trace any family or antecedents of the twenty-year-old Mr. John Edward Thomas Smith, whose unusual almost black ebony skin only contributed to his inevitable nickname of Jet. The fellow himself had been silent through much of his time at the sanatorium and even though he was now managing a few words, he would immediately return to his silence when asked about his past.

A clue to that past came when Ajax, who when he was not looking at me in that worrisome way of his was a most perceptive fellow, detected a faint West Country accident in the huge fellow's voice. Some further research uncovered the unhappy truth; Jet had come to London from Somersetshire and had married when he was eighteen but his wife had tired of him and, since her equally unpleasant brother worked at the Tankerville Club, she had conspired to have her husband 'captured'. She was fortunate that she had at least some sense; both she and her brother availed themselves of the opportunity I gave them to get out of the country within seven days or face the consequences. More than one person offered that choice in my long and illustrious career would pick incorrectly – and fatally!

The only downside was, of course, that I had to report my findings back to Logan and be stared at menacingly by Ajax. My brother did not help matters by smirking at my slight discomfiture.

“Jack does not want to end you, Sherlock”, he grinned. “He is more concerned with my end!”

I glared at him. He was so not funny.

“Can't end Mr. Sherlock”, Ajax said tersely. “He has Doctor Watson.”

I stared at him. _Just what had he meant by that?_

MDCCCLXXX

Like a burr caught in a scarf, Ajax's remark hung in my brain over the next few days. Of course I did not have Watson the way that Logan and Ajax had each other, or for that matter that Tiny had Mark. Seven times last weekend in the latter's case, which I knew thanks to an oversharing brother who would be discovering about now that making smart remarks only the day before his weekend away did not stop me from getting some extra 'supplies' to his tormentor. That was what express delivery had been dreamed up for!

Despite my brilliant logical skills, the idea would not go away. I knew that my siblings regarded me as the original cold fish, someone who did not do Feelings. I had long accepted this as I found other people generally tiresome, and I had been long been resigned to the fact that that was my lot in this life. Plus there was the not inconsiderable factor that despite the fortuitous friendship of Mr. Kuznetsov I was likely to attract the attentions of some very undesirable people sooner rather than later, of the sort who would target anyone close to me without mercy. I could not risk exposing the man that I.... admired to such danger. It was perhaps fortunate therefore that a case came my way shortly after this bother and I was able to divert my energies into it rather than fretting over what I could never have, and would never deserve to have.

Watson's ridiculously tall brother was wrong. There was more than one occupant of this house a long way up a river in north-east Africa when it came to those things called Feelings.

MDCCCLXXX

Ironically it was another of Logan's 'boys' who brought us our next case. I do not know why he called them that as they were most definitely all men and he refused to employ anyone who could not provide full proof of their being eighteen _and_ who also looked it, unlike far too many such establishments. Thanks to Moira I had been able to put my irritating brother in contact with someone who was a skilled forger and could detect the occasional forged birth-certificate that some applicants tried to slip past him.

This 'boy' was a handsome strawberry-blond fellow in his mid-twenties called Mr. Brodie Drummond, one of those strange young gentlemen who looked as if he was one meal away from starvation (oddly both our past and present landladies had apparently said much the same about me to Watson, but as that meant extra bacon for breakfast I had decided to say nothing). Our visitor was well-presented even if he did not so much wear his clothes as rather look lost in them. Logan had warned me of his arrival so I had been able to tell Watson, but when Brodie introduced himself I could still see my friend's look of utter incredulity (he has never been good at concealing his thoughts) as to what this fellow had that made other men.... That. 

Brodie's 'secret' was, I knew from a brother who had Mark's irritating tendency to overshare certain totally unnecessary pieces of information, twofold. Firstly he was one of the merriest men that I had ever met; he was nearly always smiling despite life's slings and arrows, and Logan told me that many of his clients found his cheeriness infectious especially if they had come to the house feeling down. And secondly.... perhaps later I might 'accidentally' leave out Logan's catalogue in which Brodie was listed as 'Foot-Long Finn' where Watson could... no, that would be cruel. 

Probably cruel.

“Mr. Logan said it was all right to come and see you, sirs”, Brodie said politely (his accent was a curious one as he had had a Scottish father and an Australian mother, but it was not unpleasant). “Something rather strange happened yesterday and what with today's paper I thought it best to come and ask if you might look into it.”

“Is there anything unusual in the 'Times', Watson?” I asked.

“Just this terrible fog and the usual speculation that Mr. Disraeli will call an election”, my friend said. “It is hardly news but Malcolm, Duke of Cromartyshire¹ is involved in some scandal or other, again. That is typical of the rogue; he never could keep it in his trousers.”

“The duke is my father”, Brodie said calmly.

Watson went pale at that. I have to admit that the news surprised even me; I knew that Malcolm, Duke of Cromartyshire lived partly in London and was often being criticized for the poor management of his Scottish estates in the county that he took his title from, which as the name suggested lay in the Far North of Scotland. The newspaper's criticism was more likely than not justified given his reputation. But.... well!

“I know that he is over eighty years of age and I am but twenty-five”, Brodie said patiently. “Even those in my profession can manage basic mathematics, gentlemen. The jibe made some time back that he could raise a football team from his bastard sons is I might say an underestimate; he could fill both teams with substitutes, provide all the officials and make a fair start on a crowd!”

I could not but smile at his bluntness. I had heard the same thing said about my father's late business associate Sheridan, Lord Hawke (I would later come to realize just how true it was in his case), whose son Lord Tobias we had at least partly avenged in our recent Repellent Philanthropist case.

“Do you have any contact with the family?” I asked, dragging myself away from painful memories of the past.

“Not as such”, he smiled. “Even without the mess that he and his sons are making of the estate, they could not afford to fund all his bastard offspring, although I do have the usual allowance. It is what happened two days ago that has given me cause for concern which is why I came here.”

“Family does not end in blood”, Watson observed.

“Mine may be about to do just that”, Brodie said. “The title is one of the oldest in Scotland and, by a great stroke of misfortune, nominative rather than successive.”

“He means that the current holder of the title may nominate anyone as his heir provided they are of his or his father's bloodline”, I explained to a puzzled Watson. “Even you, sir.”

Our visitor chuckled.

“I think that I would rather bet on Martians invading than that ever happening!” he smiled. “Besides my father has three legitimate sons; Malcolm, Torquil and Archibald. All have sons and grandsons to continue the line although sad to say most are like my father, of no significant benefit to the human race. My late mother's cousin Ben works at the house and he keeps me informed of how things are there; he says the only one he would give tuppence for is Mr. Archibald's eldest Edmund, who is but fifteen years of age. Otherwise it is the case that most of the apples have not fallen far from a bad tree.”

He drew a breath.

“Two days ago I had a client whom I did not think anything unusual of, at least at first. We did what he wished and had paid for but afterwards he wished to talk about me, which I thought unusual although it is not unknown. Indeed I think some gentlemen really wish only for someone to listen to but consider going to a molly-house more 'manly'. Such are our species, I suppose. I did not of course reveal my parentage to this fellow but his questions led me to suspect that he knew of it and was prompting me for information. I did not like it at all.”

“You believe that one of your half-brothers is trying to obtain information that they might use against the others?” I asked. 

He nodded.

“As I said, there is a gaggle of MacGyvers out there”, he said. “The odds are that at least some of them will talk, given enough money. The news-papers speculate about Father all the time of course, but as gentlemen we all know how society functions. As long as there is no actual _proof_ then people will continue to accept him, and for all his bad behaviour he does crave that acceptance.”

I looked thoughtfully at the young fellow.

“There is something else”, I said. “Something that you have not yet mentioned, but that makes this matter urgent in some way.”

He smiled.

“You are correct, sir”, he said. “Ben wrote recently to tell me that my father recently suffered a mild stroke. He has made a partial recovery but he is not what he once was.”

“I did not read that in the newspapers”, Watson said.

I nearly smirked at his admission that he perhaps read the society-pages more than most gentlemen. He stared suspiciously at me but I managed to keep a straight face. Just.

“It was covered up”, Brodie explained, his own slight smile telling me that he too had spotted the slip, “and he was told to rest for two weeks. A sprained ankle was the official reason put out. But he was warned to avoid any further stress in his life, especially given his great age. It is my opinion that my client was most likely paid to try to extract information from me. He failed, but despite my only tangential relationship to my family I am still concerned for them. Blood, you know.”

I smiled inwardly at a molly-man using a word like 'tangential'. The world really was full of surprises.

“What would happen if your father died not having nominated anyone as heir?” I asked.

“That cannot happen”, our visitor said. “When he inherits, a new duke is obliged to make a choice and lodge it with the family lawyers before they will sign over the estate to him. But there is always the chance that someone has found out what that choice was and is endeavouring to effect a change, especially now with time clearly short.”

“I shall most definitely look into this matter for you”, I promised. “It will take some time given the circumstances, but I will contact you at the house as soon as I have something.”

“Thank you, sir. Perhaps while I am here the good doctor might be good enough to check an injury I sustained last week. A sprain which has not healed as fast as I had hoped.”

Watson nodded his assent and I went to see what newspapers from the past few weeks I could obtain from Miss Hellingly.

MDCCCLXXX

I was for once grateful of my friend's tendency to very occasionally glance at the society-pages (even if I did very rarely chivvy him about that on the odd occasion). I also went out to post a letter; on returning to our rooms I found that Brodie had left and my friend was presumably in his room. I called out to him and he came out looking strangely down.

“Is something the matter?” I asked, surprised. 

He blushed.

“Nothing”, he said. “You said that you wanted me to help you look at some newspaper articles?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. From his slightly rumpled clothes he had undressed for some reason, yet it was the middle of the day and as far as I knew he had no new clothes to try on.... oh my Lord he had not!

I felt a surge of anger before logic reasserted itself; Logan would never have allowed any of his 'boys' to behave in such a manner. I knew that. I should have known that, let alone Brodie was (even given his profession) far too moral a man to have done such a thing. But then why had my friend looked so embarrassed?

Belatedly I got it. He had been comparing a certain part of his body to that of Mr. Drummond, just two years his junior and.... arguably a tad more well-endowed. My friend stared hard at the floor clearly hoping that I would say nothing.

I said nothing. I did not even smirk. At least not until I had gone to my room to fetch something, and even then it was really a smile. I still got a suspicious look when I rejoined my friend, though.

MDCCCLXXX

“The 'Times' is getting worse by the day”, Watson sighed some hours later after we had both been reading through far too many articles on people who could have bored for the British Empire. “I do not know what it is that you wish me to find.”

“I do not 'wish' you to find anything”, I said. “I have read most of these myself but I know full well that it is easy to find something if you start out by looking for it.”

He just looked confused. 

“I suppose it is better than these terrible magazines you got from Miss Hellingly”, he said. “They are nothing but scandalous gossip.”

“Indeed”, I said. “I honestly wonder what sort of person keeps _that_ sort of thing in the second drawer down of their bedside cabinet.”

He flushed most horribly.

“You saw!” he hissed.

“I called in on you one day last month and saw 'Etymological Peregrinations' sticking out of it”, I grinned. “Three copies, by the look of it.”

And there came the pout! He folded his arms and huffed at me.

“Your thoughts?” I prompted, pointing to the pile of newspapers and magazines.

_“I could do with a less nosier room-mate!”_

I put on my most injured expression. He folded at once; perhaps there was something to Mark's comment that I had him well-trained, which I had allowed as the behemoth hanging over him had quipped 'he's not the only one, sir!'. My brother had gone bright red!

“I am sorry”, Watson said, picking up a magazine. “There is only one odd thing about all these articles, apart from the fact they are all hostile to the duke and his family.”

“What was that?” I asked.

“They were all written by Scottish writers.”

I just looked at him. 

“The duke _is_ Scottish”, I said, nonplussed at his remark.

“I know”, he said, “but these are all _London_ magazines. I wonder that there are so many Scots writers in London who all just happen to hate the duke. Unless perhaps some of them are pseudonyms?”

He really was a lot smarter than he thought himself. I made a mental note to buy him an extra bar of chocolate for being so clever. I might even let him keep all his bacon tomorr....

No. I was not that far gone and my conscience really could cut with that whispered 'yet'.

MDCCCLXXX

I was near Logan's house the following day and took the chance to call in on him. He was it turned out away in the East End with Ajax apparently looking to take over a molly-house there, but I was able to speak with Brodie who from his dishevelled appearance had just come from a client. That and the fact he was only wearing a rather short dressing-gown which.... well!

Perhaps I had been wrong to tease Watson. And Brodie really might remember not to cross his legs when he sat down; I could see... everything!

“The cases progresses”, I said, not myself feeling the least bit inadequate in any area, “but I need to make a number of inquiries into the world of journalism to discover who is behind these attacks on your family. That will I am afraid take some time.”

“I can help you there”, he said.

“You can?” I asked, surprised. 

He grinned.

“We have a few members of the press as clients”, he smiled. “Not just for the obvious reasons; many of them come here thinking to extract secrets on the great and the good. We do not of course provide any; discretion is our watchword.”

That I knew to be true. In what was basically a sordid business my brother's success was because he maintained high standards that earned him a good reputation among both clients and employees alike. I knew that he had once dismissed a fellow who had gone to the press with details about a client of his, and who had had a most unfortunate encounter with some of his former co-workers very soon after. There had been no further lapses by any others of his 'boys'.

“They would help out?” I asked dubiously. I knew several journalists and frankly I thought most of them gave vultures a bad name. They had their uses but as Watson so rightly, said, so did lawyers, sewage-workers and politicians. 

“In return for certain less critical information about some less desirable patrons”, he said. “Logan has done that before when we had that member of parliament who tried to close us down. You remember, sir; that ghastly Mr. Nolan. The press 'discovered' things about his 'preferences' that were more than a bit irregular, and he backed off.”

I winced as I remembered that story – I had gone off ham sandwiches for some time thereafter – and gave him a sheet of paper.

“These are the names of all the journalists who have written articles against your father and family along with the publications”, I said. “Doctor Watson observed that they are all of Scots ancestry and suggested that some of them might be pseudonyms. I need to know which if any of them are real, then we can proceed from there.”

“I will get on it right away”, Brodie promised. “There was another article in the 'Times' today alleging financial impropriety by Torquil. I doubt that he would have the imagination although I am less certain about that shrew of a wife of his, but with all this mud at least some of it will stick.”

“That”, I said, “is all too true.”

MDCCCLXXX

I have to admit that even I was surprised at the efficiency with which Logan's 'boys' were able to extract the required information from their journalists clientele. I made the mistake of remarking upon this to a certain medical acquaintance of mine who retorted that it was not just the information that had been extracted. I really do not know why I kept him around at times!

Oh yes. The bacon. And he usually had that second and third coffee ready for me of a morning, too. No other reasons, and my conscience could stop right there!

A week and two more articles later Watson and I were dining at the Plaza Hotel where my brother Guilford was then working. In fairness – which is exceedingly difficult when it comes to this particular sibling – I suppose that I should correct the impression my friend's writings sometimes gave in that my idiot brother's frequent changes of employment were due to his character, understandable though such a belief might have been. The truth was that he was good at his job and always got bored once he had made things work as efficiently as they could at a place. 

Since you ask, yes. I did make sure to check my food before eating. I _knew_ my brother! Although when I advised John to do the same, he suggested that we could always ‘report’ Guilford to Mother for punishment, whether he had actually done anything or not. He really was terrible at times; I would never have thought of..... 

Well, he was still terrible!

Guilford had at least been able to tell me that a certain person who I wished to meet was dining there that evening, which was also good as it gave me a reason to treat Watson to an evening out. My brother had also been able to ensure that we were placed at a table next to said person, so I was able to engender what seemed like a chance encounter.

“Sir Oliver?” I said, feigning surprise.

Sir Oliver Robyn-Quisling was one of the chief advisers to Mr. Gladstone and a very important figure in the political world at the time. As was mentioned earlier in this tale there was a general election looming for which it was widely (and as it turned out, correctly) predicted that the Liberals would sweep to power. Such men as the baronet before me should have kept a low profile but he had become infamous after being caught talking to his employer shortly before a speech that had come out differently to what had been planned (and leaked), with the result that the 'Times' had done an infamous cartoon of him as a puppet-master controlling a puppet Gladstone. The angry official had had threatened to sue but nothing had come of it, which had of course led people to think that the accusation had been true. Sir Oliver was about fifty-five years old and, as the 'Times' had so accurately described him, 'a prime piece of pure prancing pomposity'.

The baronet looked down his nose at me as if I was something unpleasant left behind by a stray cat.

“Who or what are you?” he said disdainfully.

I looked across at the lady he was seated with whom I knew to be his wife, Lady Agnes. The daughter of a certain Highland duke, which made her Brodie's half-sister. The Lord sometimes came out with some very different models from similar moulds; at least Brodie had not been simpering at me!

“This _is_ a most fortuitous coincidence”, I smiled at the baronet. “I was intending to visit you later this week over a set of scurrilous newspaper articles.”

Neither of them reacted, yet I could sense a change in the atmosphere.

“I do not know what you are talking about”, Sir Oliver said rudely. “Good day, sir.”

“Not about Mr. Alan Cameron?” I asked. “Mr. Aidan MacAvie? Mr. Stuart Carr? Mr. James Ferrers? Would you like me to list your five other pseudonyms while I am about it?”

The fellow had gone pale. 

“I know all, sir”, I said quietly. Around us the buzz of the busy restaurant continued, while Watson and Lady Agnes watched us intently. “I know of your attempt to discredit your father-in-law who, despite his Scottish title, holds considerable lands in Leinster and is well regarded by the new Home Rule Party who may hold the balance of power either after the forthcoming election or at some future date. I know of the articles written by those journalists and in whose handwriting they were submitted.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about”, Sir Oliver said loftily, although he looked increasingly worried.

“I did not say that they were in _your_ handwriting, sir”, I said with an easy smile. “However I have obtained a sample of your secretary's writing and it matches that on the articles perfectly. Not forgetting the long weekends the two of you have spent in certain expensive hotels and at the public expense as 'Mr. and Mrs. Smith'. I have also obtained details of the bank account opened to receive payment for those articles – _an account in both your name and hers!”_

The villain had gone deathly pale. His wife was clearly considering whether the cutlery was sharp enough for what she had in mind. I really should have arranged for something sharper to have been available. But there were plenty of waiters to hand.

“I may or may not have more”, I said. “I will accept the cessation of these articles and your resignation. Otherwise.... I may use my contacts to make sure that certain people in authority receive some even more damning information.”

I leaned forward.

“Including the piece about that distinctive mole on your left buttock!” I whispered.

I may have said that a shade too loudly. Lady Agnes looked _murderous!_

MDCCCLXXX

Sir Oliver Robyn-Quisling resigned his governmental post the next day. His wife had already left him and had initiated immediate divorce proceedings. She had also taken a pair of scissors to her husband's wardrobe, coincidentally the extra-sharp pair that had been delivered to her by courier that morning. She did not take the scissors to him, unfortunately, but one could not have everything.

MDCCCLXXX

There was an interesting epilogue to this case. I subsequently visited Duke Malcolm in his London home and apprised him of how matters had developed, and he was more than gracious in rewarding me. Only a few months after that he did indeed die of a stroke and his will, when it was read, shocked his family. His estate and title were bequeathed to his grandson Edmund but the management of the estate for the five or so years until the boy attained his majority fell to none other than Brodie, who returned to Scotland and made such a good job of things that he was subsequently kept on as the estate manager. I would meet him up there one day not that far into the future – albeit in less than happy circumstances.

MDCCCLXXX

_Notes:_   
_1) Then still a separate county, comprising twenty-two small enclaves scattered across the northern parts of Ross-shire which which it was merged in 1890. The principal settlements were Cromarty (720 people in 2019, about half the size it had been in 1880), Strathpeffer and Ullapool (both around 1,500 people in 2019). Altogether the country was about twenty per cent larger than the old county of Middlesex or about a quarter the size of the U.S. state of Rhode Island. Today (2021) it is part of the sprawling Highland Region, an unwieldy behemoth about the size of the U.S. state of Vermont but with less than 40% its population._

MDCCCLXXX


	3. Drake's Drum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> March 1880. Sergeant LeStrade asks Sherlock to go down to rural north Devonshire to see his eldest son Gareth, who has moved there for his health and lives with the sergeant's younger brother Bors. The two men suspect that something is not right about the recent return to the area of two soldiers, and they are right – but Sherlock ‘ghosts' his way to a solution!

It was still winter and for once the snows were welcome, as a solid week of the stuff had brought an end to the five months of fog that had hung over the capital. It had unfortunately not prevented Randall from coming round to whine about wanting my help in some trifling political matter which Mark had already warned me about; the seemingly inevitable triumph of the Liberals at the forthcoming general election always meant officials rushing round to hid.... to get the paperwork in order for their new masters, and the lounge-lizard in particular hated changes of government as it would always mean a new political overlord who might start inquiring to just what went on in his department. Of course my unpleasant brother boasted that he would soon have whoever it was 'trained', which led me to ask if that was like he had 'trained' Miss Couzens, that secretary who had had to leave the office for nine months or so recently.

He had given me such a look!

The snow apart, March was a difficult month for a number of reasons. I had to go round and visit Mother which was never a good thing, but at least after Randall had rushed round there to prevent me telling her about Miss Couzens or at least proffer some excuse, he had been the one to have to listen to 'Copacabana', a story about ladies in Brazil who got some quite personal services when they hired a beach-boy to carry their things for them. And then the very next day the normally reliable Miss Hellingly had actually run short of bacon! Of course I had had all Watson's rashers but still, this was not a good way to start any day.

To add to my cup of woes I now had Watson smirking over his notes in the corner because Gregson had been round this morning – barely a minute after nine, the villain – and after the pretext of telling me about some trifling nonsense had actually managed to look surprise when it had turned out to be our land-lady's baking-day! I was sure that he must have heard my friend snorting his amusement from his table but perhaps he was too busy with the blesséd cake.

Gregson had finally left and Watson had been just about to set off to attend to some distant client out in Notting Hill somewhere, when who had arrived but LeStrade. Thankfully he was able to postpone his departure for a few minutes while we waited for a second happy London sergeant to finish his slice of Madeira cake – there was not even a single crumb left on that plate and I was sure that he would have licked it had we not been there! – before we learned of the reason for his visit. Or should I say the _other_ reason for his visit.

I decided that my possibly-friend's smirk was now officially _annoying!_ I do not know which is worse; the fact that I was catching the villain's cynicism or the fact that he was very occasionally verging on being right!

“You remember my eldest, Gareth?” LeStrade said, staring forlornly at the cake-less plate (like Watson he seemed to believe that a doleful enough look might somehow turn back time and make the recently-eaten item magically re-appear). “Sixteen now and he has never been right, but he's better after the doctor here recommended a change of air for him and all. I sent him to my brother down in Ilfracombe on the Devon and it seems to have worked like it did for Bors. Gar doesn't want to follow in my footsteps worse luck, but he's great at reading people and he wrote to me the other day saying he thinks a friend of his may have been murdered.”

The reader will remember that I assisted young Mr. Bors LeStrade, then just eighteen years of age, back in 'Seventy-Three over the railway-accident he was in and which had looked to effectively end his working life. His railway-company had (eventually) been made to see sense and they had agreed to pay him a sum that had had him set for a comfortable if not a luxurious life. I had been worried that the young man's recovery after the accident had seemed slow but a change of air had proven just the tonic he had needed, which he had obtained by moving to the West Country.

I mentally berated myself for one oversight; when Watson had diagnosed young Gareth LeStrade he had said that a local factory close to the family house was likely the cause for the poor health of several members. I had checked but the owners of the factory had been operating within the law, so I had made a mental note to see if I could get the family moved somewhere better. What with one thing and another lately it had slipped my mind.

 _“May_ have been murdered?” I asked, writing down a reminder on a notepad (even my brilliant mind needed an occasional jog). “How can he be in doubt, pray? Either a fellow is dead or he is not dead.”

“This Teddy went into the Army as a drummer-boy”, LeStrade said. “They take them far too young even for such a role, though that's just my opinion. He was down in Egypt and Gar heard that he'd been stabbed to death by a raiding-party down near the Sudan.”

_(I had no idea then just how soon that barren and scorching area of the Earth would come to be a factor in my own life. A very bad factor)._

“What makes him think that his friend was murdered?” I asked.

“Two fellows from a nearby village, Combe Martin, went with him”, LeStrade said. “Gar said that they pretended to be pals with Teddy but they just wanted to cadge money off of him. Ever since they got back they've had a lot more money to throw around. It smells off.”

“You are not asking much, my friend”, I said with a smile. “Just to find out if a crime was committed over a thousand miles away.”

LeStrade's face fell, and not I suspected because he there was no more cake. Well, not solely because of that.

_Watson!_

“I did say you might find it a bit of a stretch”, our visitor admitted. It's just.... you see, for all he’s good at reading people, Gar doesn't really have much up top.”

“He is bald already?” I asked innocently.

Watson shook his head at me for some reason. I knew not why; it was entirely his fault that I was wont to come out with things like that. He was a bad influence on me.

“You know how Bors is a bit detached from the real world”, LeStrade said. “I remember the bastards on the railway trying to use that against him to avoid paying out, till you out them to rights. Gar's a bit the same but he has a good sense for when something's not right, and I think he's likely right on this.”

“North Devonshire sounds a charming area”, I said. “Watson, could your surgery spare you for a few days?”

“They could”, he said, “provided that I arrange it with them beforehand. And I know that the London & South Western Railway recently extended to Ilfracombe so getting there should not be a problem.”

I smiled.

“Then once you have made the arrangements, we shall go and see if your son is right, LeStrade.”

MDCCCLXXX

I could see that Watson was surprised that we went to the London & South Western's Waterloo Station rather than the much nearer Paddington. The Great Western had as he well knew a faster route at least as far as Barnstaple only a dozen or so miles south of Ilfracombe, with the new Taunton to Barnstaple line having been opened shortly before the Ilfracombe branch itself. The reason was a simple one; by adhering to the South Western we would have to change at Exeter, which would enable my friend to see another of his big old churches. I was a good friend to him.

North Devon was a surprisingly beautiful if blustery place, and Ilfracombe turned out to be built on a steep hill with the railway-station placed right at the top of it. I supposed that this was necessary because of the gradients, but even in flatter areas stations were often built some distance from the places that they purported to serve. This was often the way in those days, a false economy which would come back to bite the railways in the later age of the 'bus and the car. At least it was downhill to our seafront hotel, and Watson had looked very happy when I said that when we left, we might (would) have some time at Exeter when we changed there on the way back.

When we met LeStrade's brother and nephew I was hard-put to resist smiling, for physically they were much the image of our friend and for that matter of each other. Mr. Bors LeStrade was only eight years older than his nephew and indeed had not changed much from when I had met him some seven years back; he remembered me and was effusive in his greetings. Both fellows had an air of semi-detachment from the world around them, but they were also both friendly gentlemen and I liked them.

We had not been at our host's house for more than a few minutes before he had another visitor, so clearly the rural telegraph was working with its usual efficiency. This was a plain but well-presented young girl of about eighteen, with far more focus about her than either of the two men before us. She looked us up and down – I caught a simper at one of us who was not a medical personage before she pulled herself up – then nodded approvingly.

“Yes, I suppose you will do”, she said. “My name is Mercy Waring, and my father owns a fish-shop in town. Gareth is going to marry me when he turns eighteen.”

From the look on her face I estimated that Gareth was going to marry her whether Gareth willed it or no. Indeed, Gareth had better get used to being what she expected of a husband, or else Gareth might not live to regret it! And if Watson was not drawing a doormat in his notes just then (especially as he reddened under my sharp look), then I was a Dutchman!

“Gareth told me about the Davey brothers”, Miss Waring said. “No sense in the boy, but he knows people and if he thinks they did something wrong, then they did something wrong.”

“Master Gareth's father believes that they may have murdered one of his friends”, I said. “Proving that will be rather difficult....”

“Nonsense!” she said roundly. “You just have to talk with that idiot Dick Witherspoon.”

“Who is that?” I asked.

She looked at her future husband with exasperation.

“Did you not tell them _anything?_ , dear?” she asked.

“They have only just got here”, he muttered defensively. 

I _definitely_ caught Watson looking at the doormat across the room! I shook my head at the rogue; I really could not take him anywhere!

“Dick was the other fellow in the scouting party when poor Teddy got killed”, Miss Waring said, also looking sharply at my friend. “He knows something all right, but he is too scared to talk.”

“Have _you_ spoken with him at all?” I asked. 

It was my turn to receive an exasperated look.

“No wonder they say it is time to give us women the vote!” she snapped. “You men are _hopeless!_ Of course I cannot talk to him; if I did that then any evidence he came out with would be tainted. Have _some_ sense!”

I did not believe Watson's innocent expression for a moment. He had definitely been thinking of a smirk there. I shot him a warning look.

“Luckily Dick is gullible”, the lady said, “and you could probably sell him Lundy Island if you out your mind to it. That is where you will get him. You will need an actor friend and some blood. The fake stuff might be better in the circumstances.”

The thought crossed my mind that this woman would make a terrifyingly efficient murderess if she ever put her mind to it. I almost felt sorry for poor Gareth LeStrade, having to marry that! _And someone was getting dangerously near Smirk Territory there!_

MDCCCLXXX

It took just forty-eight hours to put all the arrangements in place, so that Watson and I could go to see Private Richard Witherspoon. He was a young fellow who looked barely any older than the dead drummer-boy, Master Edward Drake. 

He was also a complete gibbering wreck.

“Thank God you've come!” he gasped at us as we were barely through the door. “You've got to stop him.”

“Stop who, sir?” I asked with mock confusion.

“Teddy!” the young man exclaimed. “He's haunting me. Every night I hear the sound of his drum, and every morning when I look outside I can see his ghost standing there, bleeding to death again!”

Actually it was a skilled actor friend of mine who I had paid to come all the way down from London for a 'performance'. 

“I am not sure that even my powers can prevent a ghost from haunting someone”, I said. “You did not yourself do anything that resulted in this fellow's death, sir?”

“No!”

There had been the slightest fraction of a pause before that denial. I looked sharply at him.

“But you do know something about his demise”, I said knowingly. “Seemingly he is determined to haunt you either until you confess, or join him in the next world. I think that you had better accompany us both to the police-station, sir, and tell us _everything_ that happened. Before it is too late!”

MDCCCLXXX

At the police-station we found as expected both Sergeant George Tregarron and Sergeant Peter Wilson-James from the military police, which latter gentleman I had asked to attend. The young private was in such a state that he barely waited until we were in the interview room before beginning his tale.

“You know how it is with soldiers, sir”, he said, speaking quickly in an effort to get the words out. “Money in one day and out the next; beer and women mostly. Eddie and Asher, they were worse than most. We'd just been paid but they'd blown the whole lot come the evening.”

“I overheard Asher telling Eddie they knew Teddy had a whole load of money he was saving up to take home with him, because at his age there was nothing to spend it on out there. Asher knew Geoff, who did the assignments, and he arranged for the four of us to go our on patrol one day....”

“One moment”, Sergeant Wilson-James said. “Who is this 'Geoff'? And why the four of you?”

“Geoff Quartermain, sir”, the private responded. “Four was the minimum number we could take because it was dangerous down there; they chose me because they knew I'd keep my mouth shut.”

 _Which unwise choice is about to cost them their wretched lives_ , I thought wryly. 

“We were a way from camp when they killed poor Teddy, sir”, the private continued. “It was only two days before we shipped out; I think our commanding-officer smelled a rat but he didn't want to make a fuss in case they kept us all there for an investigation. They took poor Teddy's money, they took his life and..... and now he's after me!”

“Hopefully not now you have confessed”, I said grimly. “Your own part in this was not a minor one, but we must go after the killers first.”

MDCCCLXXX

That we did. Asher and Edward Davey were tried for the murder of their drummer-boy Edward Drake, and the two men paid the appropriate price for their foul deeds. Mr. Quartermain was also made to pay for his part in the proceedings; he had quit the Army but he was still charged and served time in gaol as well as losing his pension. I also made sure that the money that the men had stolen was recovered (or at least as much if it as was possible, just over half) and passed it on to the drummer-boy's family. I also recommended that unusual as it was the Army should provide a pension to the boy's mother in lieu of the unusual circumstances of her son's death, which to their credit they did (there was the implied possible-threat that my brother Carl might otherwise take an interest, which doubtless helped motivate them somewhat).. For confessing and standing witness in the prosecution of the two murderers Private Witherspoon was let off with a warning and allowed to continue his life outside the Army; he only had to ensure one more night of his 'haunting' before the ghost vanished, never to be seen again.

Also Watson got to see his apparently fascinating big old church before having to go back to London and his hypochondriac patients. He was happy, and that was what mattered. I liked it when he smiled.

MDCCCLXXX


	4. Some Will, Some Won't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> April-July 1880. Lady Henrietta Hammerford dies and the second part of her late husband's will is read – but only those who can meet the conditions therein will inherit. Holmes makes sure that people do indeed get what is coming to them – in both senses!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned also as the case of Sir George Lewis and the Hammerford inheritance.  
> Crossover with the 1970 film of the same name.

Foreword: I am usually organized in the presentation of my notes _and a certain medical personage had better damn well not be getting anywhere near a smirk any time soon_ , but this case overlapped several that followed as it lasted for almost four months. I have chosen to insert it here when it started as there was also a small side-event around that time that was amusing, as it involved my unlovely brother Randall suffering. Which is always a good thing.

MDCCCLXXX

I am generally suspicious of coincidences, but I have to admit that they can happen. Hence the fact that my next major investigation after sorting out the Ilfracombe matter was, like that, connected to a case from seven years back was rather odd. In this case the connection was not a living one, and I had to rely on Watson for information on the noble family involved as he does sometimes know these things from his very occasional glances at the society-pages if he has the time and the newspaper just happens to have fallen open at those particular pages (again). This was also one of my more amusing cases, especially as I delivered justice in a way that those who had sought my aid may not have quite appreciated.

There was a distant connection from the family in this case to my friend, as the rise of Hammerfords dated from an incident that was arguably his home-town of Belford's sole moment in the historical spotlight. In 1603 one Robert Carey¹ rested there in his headlong dash to inform King James The Sixth of Scotland that his cousin Great Elizabeth had died and he was now also King James The First of England. Carey was related by marriage to the Hammerfords and they too prospered because of his playing the courier, Mr. Obadiah Hammerford becoming Sir Obadiah as a result.

Ten years after Belford's brief moment in the sun, Sir Obadiah's son Nehemiah was in the party that escorted James The First's daughter the ill-starred Princess Elizabeth ('the Winter Queen') to marry Frederick The Fifth, Elector of the Rhine Palatinate². Mr. Nehemiah Hammerford shared the fate of that luckless couple when her husband tilted for the Bohemian crown in 1619 and lost everything, but Fortune smiled again on the Hammerfords when Nehemiah's son Nahum was later dispatched to the court of Elizabeth's daughter Princess Sophia who had married Ernest, Elector of Hanover. As every schoolboy knows (or should know; they may not given the state of modern education), Sophia became heiress presumptive to the English throne in 1700 only to die some six weeks before her cousin Anne in 1714 and leave the throne to her useless lump of a son who became King George The First, first monarch of our current Hanoverian dynasty and great-great-great-grandfather to our illustrious Queen-Empress.

By the middle of this century Sir Julius Hammerford was the patriarch one of the richest families in England. And then, in the way that English history does so well, it all fell apart with amazing speed. The knight had long wished to acquire the village from which the family had taken its name but he was far too abrasive in his dealings with the owner who, in a fit of annoyance and with no relatives of their own to worry about, left it instead to the Bishop of Hexham. Sir Julius was not amused and waged a long, bitter and ultimately fruitless campaign to get what he thought was his as of right. This led the bishop to remark to a local reporter that he wished a pox on the whole Hammerford dynasty. Evidently the Lord had been in a listening mood just then because the Grim Reaper proceeded to cut a swathe through the once-copious family, such that when the old baronet died in 1871 there were apart from his wife only four members left. The Hammerford estate was to be administered as a trust for her until that lady's own passing after which, everyone presumed, it would be shared out amongst those of the four who had outlived her. Indeed the late baronet did indeed leave those people the residue of his estate – albeit with the odd catch. _Or four._

That Watson was able to tell me all this from those infrequent glances at these people's lives was frankly amazing! And quite why he gave me such a suspicious look when I thanked him, I knew not!

MDCCCLXXX

Our visitor Mr. Philip Lewis was not one of the aforementioned major beneficiaries, he having married the late Sir Julius's eldest daughter Terpsichore. The couple had had five children before her death some years back but only one, George, had survived and he had just turned twenty-one. Our visitor, who had received a small sum from his father-in-law upon the latter's death, was one of the executors of the will and a trustee of the recently passed Lady Hammerford's estate; the family solicitor up in Northumberland was the other.

“It is all very odd”, Mr. Lewis said. He was about fifty years of age and I thought the atypical country lawyer, down to the spectacles that he kept peering over the top of. “Sir Julius was.... I must be charitable and describe him as subject to fits of whimsy. He has left a most peculiar will and the four major beneficiaries – if indeed they are beneficiaries – are far from happy about it. That includes my own son of course.”

“It sounds most intriguing”, I said, “but I do not see where you require the services of either a consulting-detective or a doctor, sir.”

“I shall tell you the contents of the will and you will see soon enough”, the fellow said. “The usual bequests to servants and more distant kin such as myself were dealt with before the remainder of the estate was placed into two trusts. The first was for the late Lady Hammerford if she outlived her husband; she was as is customary only allowed to draw the income from it and on her death the capital was to pass to charity. The second fund was for the four primary beneficiaries – except that unbeknown to anyone, Sir Julius added some rather curious terms and conditions which the four had to fulfil in order to inherit. Furthermore they have to so do within a period of one hundred days from the reading of the will, which happened yesterday.”

“One moment”, I said. “Sir Julius Hammerford was known for being among the richest members of our so-called high society. How much of an 'estate' are we talking here, may I ask?”

Watson nodded; he could see why I had asked that question. If any of the recipients failed to meet their conditions whether through their own actions or those of a rival, then the other candidates would likely increase their holdings somewhat or, in a best-case scenario, even scoop the whole pool. Our guest duly gave us a figure and we each drew a sharp breath; that was.... quite an amount!

“So to the runners and riders”, the lawyer continued. “I shall start with Sir Julius's sister Mrs. Eleanor Crossley, commonly called Nell. She has never done a day's work in her life yet she was forever complaining that her brother did not provide her with the allowance that she felt she was entitled to. She married but it did not work out and her husband later married again; I think it annoyed her that her brother got on better with Mr. Crossley's new family than he did with her. She was I must say particularly cross that like me her ex-husband and his two stepsons received immediate bequests albeit small ones immediately on her brother's death, whereas she did not. However the boys in particular are pleasant young gentlemen who even the temperamental Sir Julius got on well with, which surprised me somewhat. In order to qualify for her part of the estate his sister has to acquire and maintain paid employment for a consecutive period of at least twenty-eight days.”

I winced. I knew full well the sort of person who our guest was describing, and one might as well have asked them to build a rocket and go to collect some moon dust.

“Away from seven distant cousins who again all received their minor bequests immediately Sir Julius had but two brothers, Cassius and Augustus”, our guest continued. “Cassius died a little over a year before his father, a boating accident if I recall, which was rather a pity as he had been a quiet, respectable young gentleman. I had better say, because naturally those scurrilous society-pages remarked on it, that Sir Julius made one bequest which did draw attention somewhat. It was a generous one to his son's former valet whom.... well, the talk among the servants was that the gentlemen were close. You know.”

I nodded. We both 'knew'. And I really wondered what on earth Sir Julius's father had been thinking when choosing names for his offspring.

“Those society-pages can be dreadful”, Watson agreed.

I just looked at him. He blushed fiercely.

“I am afraid that the only thing surprising about Augustus was that he did not drink himself to death at a younger age”, our visitor went on, luckily unaware of my friend's embarrassment. “Oddly he died just four days after his brother; his liver must have been phenomenal to have held out that long. He had not married but he did have a son from an affair that he had conducted where the lady had died in childbirth, and he had acknowledged and raised this Arthur as his own. The boy – he is now in his twenties so I suppose that I should not call him that – has taken all this particularly badly as he is the only remaining Hammerford by name albeit an acknowledged one from an illegitimate line. Then again he always was a sour-faced chap; one of the servants told me that he would struggle to secure last place in a popularity contest! He was always very vocal in his disapproval of my father-in-law's occasionally whimsical sense of humour and Sir Julius found something quite cruel for him. Arthur has to appear on one of the first three pages of the 'Times' newspaper in some non-criminal capacity.”

“That does not sound so bad”, I said. 

Our guest smiled.

“It mighty not have been”, he said, “except that it has to be for the playing of a practical joke on some person on high social standing. He must somehow annoy the great and the good but _not_ end up in gaol as a result, and he is only allowed three failed attempts before he loses his inheritance.”

I found myself beginning to rather like the late Sir Julius. Although I was glad that I was not the one on the receiving end of his 'whimsy'. 

Our visitor continued.

“Sir Julius and his wife had three children, all daughters; my late wife, Calliope and Urania. I believe that you once had dealings with the last of these, sir?”

I nodded, wincing at the memory. Mrs. Urania Rotherby, a thoroughly unpleasant woman who had tried to use some legerdemain to destroy an innocent man's reputation in order to cover up her own failings. I had made sure that she learned the trouble with applying moral standards is that they could also be applied to oneself; I remember reading of her death some three years back. No great loss to Mankind.

“Calliope was engaged to be married”, our visitor said, “but she died of consumption. Again her potential groom received a small something from Sir Julius even though by that time he had married and had children with someone else; he himself was not up to much but his wife was one of those who as they say called a spade a spade and I think that Sir Julius enjoyed her frankness when so many around him were being sycophantic. Urania as you know passed three years back; she and her husband had had one son, a boy called Daniel. I am hardly selling the family well, I know, but he is inveterately fond of the sound of his own voice and always keen that the world should benefit from his 'great wisdom'. Sir Julius was particularly inventive when it came to the grandson who was always telling him how to live his life better.”

Watson leaned forward in anticipation. I smiled at his eagerness.

“He has to join a Trappist order of monks”, Mr. Lewis grinned, “and remain silent for a period of twenty-eight days. Father Abbot and all the other monks are pledged to monitor him, and should he talk his clock is immediately reset to zero. The monastery itself did receive a bequest but that was theirs as of right, not contingent on Daniel's success or failure. Not of course that one would question men of God.”

I could see that Watson was mentally running through a list of which patients he had that might benefit from such an experience. I quirked an eyebrow at him and he blushed most deliciously. He was so predictable!

“Finally to my own dear son”, our visitor said with a sigh. “I have tried to raise him well but I am afraid that he has grown into the most priggish, pompous, insufferably self-righteous fellow that I have ever met! And before you say anything gentlemen, that was the description given him by my late wife with which I am in complete accord.”

 _So much for a father's love_ , I thought. 

“What is his task?” I asked. 

Our visitor grinned.

“This most righteous of men has to commit a crime that will see him locked in a prison cell for at least four weeks”, he said. “He must however be out of gaol by the time the final will is read, some ninety-nine days hence. So, any ideas how to get my son into a gaol cell, gentlemen?”

MDCCCLXXX

“I have to say”, I said once our guest had gone, “that this is a most unusual case. Most of my work involves keeping people out of gaol. I think this may be the first time that a client has requested me to ensure that their own son gets put into one!”

“He needs to commit a crime”, Watson mused, “but not something so serious that it would result in his being incarcerated for too long a period of time. That will not be easy, let alone the fact that the judicial system moves with the speed of a crushed snail.”

“There is another variable to consider”, I said. “The length of sentence will depend to some extend on who takes the trial, the 'what the judge had for breakfast' factor. That and the character of said judge could mean the difference between a small fine and a lengthy spell at Her Majesty's Pleasure. I wonder....”

“What are you plotting?” he asked. 

“You will soon see!” I promised.

And there was the pout!

MDCCCLXXX

I mentioned the forthcoming general election in our last adventure and sure enough it had transpired as expected, with Mr. Gladstone sweeping back into power. That as I also said meant more work for my pestilential lounge-lizard of a brother but that was no reason for me not to add to his woes. I had been asked (Commanded) to call in on Mother but my brother Mark had sent round that she had just completed her saga on how Robin Hood gave his Merry Men some drugged beer after which they all had their merry way with him, and that this 'Arrow' needed editing by whichever suc.... son or daughter happened by first. So I sent my apologies that I had to rush off on an urgent case, and also sent round to the pestilential Randall that I would be calling on Mother that afternoon to tell her about the coal-merchant's daughter. Sure enough, bare minutes later I received a boastful reply which the lounge-lizard had sent from the post-office along from our parents' house that he was right there and headed inside. 

We all know what pride comes before!

MDCCCLXXX

Sir George Lewis (Watson had pointed out that he had been fortunate to at least inherit the title, as many such could not pass down a female line) was currently visiting an aunt up in Scotland and was due to attend us that Friday. By the time he arrived however one his rivals had already attained their goal. Mr. Arthur Hammerford had made the front page of the 'Times' by the simple yet cunning expedient of climbing up on the statue of the great Duke of Wellington at Hyde Park Corner and planting a French flag in his grasp. Watson remarked at his apparent ingenuity; as I pointed out the will had not actually stated that the great figure had to be a _living_ one. The Park authorities were as one might imagine far from pleased, but as he was reportedly 'in his cups' at the time he was let off with a fine and a stern talking-to.

The young baron was worried.

“Cousin Arthur will get part of the estate now”, he said sourly. “I am almost certain that my great-aunt will not find employment anywhere as I cannot imagine anyone being that desperate, and Danny cannot shut up for twenty-eight minutes let alone twenty-eight days! But then I did not imagine Arthur being on the inside-pages of the 'Times', damn him!”

“We must set about getting you in gaol”, I said, thinking that that was arguably the first time I had said that to a client and that it really would have been far better to have said it to certain siblings. “Now, I have checked and I see that the aptly named Judge Justice is on the bench for the next few weeks. He is renowned for passing the stiffest sentences possible.”

“That is a _good_ thing?” Sir George asked, looking askance at me.

“It means that you can commit a relatively minor offence and be sure of a month inside so that you can claim your inheritance”, I explained. “There is the inevitable delay of waiting for the legal process to work and we must have you out in a little over three months, but for certain crimes or at least when certain victims with certain connections are involved, the wheels of justice can be encouraged to grind rather more quickly than usual. I therefore suggest that you slap the face of Mr. Paul Rainham-Woods when he leaves his house in the Strand next Monday. I shall have a constable friend of mine standing by to arrest you immediately so that he has no chance for any retaliatory action.”

“Who is this fellow?” Sir George asked curiously.

“Not only is he a lawyer, his wife is Judge Justice's elder daughter Pandora, so His Honour will _not_ be pleased”, I explained. “Both men will use their influence to speed the decrepit pace that our judicial system usually functions at, otherwise you would have little hope of success. I have some back-up plans but I believe that this is your best opportunity.”

“I do not think that I can do it”, the fellow muttered. 

I could see that he matched his father's description of him all too well. I sighed. 

“Here”, I said passing the fellow a card. “This is the address of Mr. Winslow, an actor friend of mine. He can show you various techniques to cause as much embarrassment to your target as possible, as well as how to achieve a safe distance until the constable arrests you.”

“But what reason would I have for doing such a thing?” the fellow asked.

I could think of a number of reasons in pounds, shillings and pence. But I knew that there was a much better way of appealing to this excuse for a man.

“Well, I suppose that now we know he has 'qualified'”, I said slyly, “you could always let the whole estate go to your cousin Arthur?”

He almost snatched the card from me!

MDCCCLXXX

By the day before the planned 'attack' there was mixed news for our client. He was feeling a little more confident about what was planned and I had arranged for a female actress to appear as well, her bearing a passing resemblance to Mrs. Rainham-Woods. The idea would be that our client would mistakenly think that the judge's son was seeing his current girlfriend behind his back, hence the assault.

The bad news was that against all his hopes Mrs. Eleanor Crossley, the late Sir Julius's sister, had somehow obtained paid employment.

“Only as a maid”, Sir George told us, clearly worried. “That was all she could get and according to a maid of hers she _hates_ it! But she is determined to stick it out. Worse, my father told me that Danny has somehow made it to the end of his first week. He must have had his lips glued together!”

“You will need to be outside the house by a quarter-past eight in case he is early”, I told him. “My sources tell me that Mr. Rainham-Woods is always seen off at the door by his wife every morning but that the times vary slightly. This particular morning you 'happened' to be out for a walk and saw them. Enraged, you determined to prevent yourself from being so shamefully cuckolded. Mr. Rainham-Woods is due in court tomorrow so the effect will be maximized.”

“Good!” our client said. “I can almost taste all that lovely money!”

 _And you will surely get it,_ I thought.

MDCCCLXXX

It was just over a month later and a very anxious Sir George Lewis was in the dock. Despite the 'assault' having gone to plan, the last month had gone very ill for him. Against all expectations his cousin Daniel had managed to keep his mouth shut and his great-aunt to keep her employment for the required twenty-eight days, so all three of his rivals had now qualified to inherit part of the estate. Notably all three were in court to see what happened to their rival.

Judge Robertson Justice scowled down upon the figure in the dock before him. I was frankly surprised that the varnish on the dock did not peel under that look.

“You have nothing to say in your defence, you impudent young scallywag?” he demanded.

“No, sir”, our client said.

“Harrumph!” the judge said. “Fortunately for you I am in a lenient frame of mind today. Fourteen days will suffice. Take him down.”

Our client looked up in alarm.

“Two weeks?” he spluttered.

I took out a piece of paper and held it in front of me as if I was reading it. Our client caught the movement and reacted admirably.

“Eh, it was worth it!” Sir George said airily. “Pompous young ass. Let alone that tart of his masquerading as my Flo.....”

_“What did you say?”_

I was reminded of the ancient god Jupiter thundering his displeasure down from Mount Olympus. The judge looked absolutely _furious!_

“She was a tart!” our client said robustly. “Anyone could see that. God alone knows what sort of family she comes from....”

“God may not but I certainly do!” the judge roared. “Twenty-one days!”

“Is that it?” our client said with a yawn. “She was still a tart.”

“Make it a whole damn month!” the judge all but yelled banging his gavel so hard that even my ears rang. “Take him down before I come over there myself!”

MDCCCLXXX

Before we left I pointed out to Watson the three rival candidates to our client's ambitions. The large if not formidable lady was Mrs. Eleanor Crossley recently a maid for all her sins, the snooty looking dark-haired fellow (seriously, a pony-tail?) next to him was Mr. Daniel Rotherby and the snide looking young man at the end was Mr. Arthur Hammerford. On looks alone I would not have left any of them anything if I had been the late Sir Julius Hammerford; they had all looked most annoyed when with my help their rival had been sent down for the requisite amount of time.

“I find it a miracle that any hotel employed _her_ ”, Watson said quietly, looking at Mrs. Crossley.

I smiled knowingly. He stared at me.

“Just how _did_ she find a position at a hotel?” he asked.

“Remember you had those two clients out in Denham last week?” I asked.

“Yes”, he said. “What of it?”

“I went round to all three of them and offered my services”, I explained. “I said that since Sir George had approached me – or at least his father had – I felt that it only fair that they should be offered the chance to use my talents as well.”

“And you helped them all?” he asked incredulously. “Was that not going against our client's interests?”

“I prefer to think of it as honouring the spirit of the late Sir Julius's will”, I chuckled, “in making sure that each had the same chance. Besides, I felt that it was for the best that all of them got exactly what was coming to them.”

He shook his head at me. I did not know why; I had most definitely followed the spirit of the late Sir Julius's will, and all his relatives would very soon get exactly what was coming to them. Not a penny more and not a penny less!

MDCCCLXXX

It was several weeks later and we were attending the final reading of Sir Julius Hammerford's will. He had directed that it be done in public much to the annoyance of the four beneficiaries and there was quite a crowd gathered for the occasion. None of them looked pleased at either the public setting or their rivals' success, but all were clearly keen to see how much richer they were set to become.

“I wonder why none of them thought to challenge the will?” Watson wondered as Mr. Philip Lewis took his seat next to the other lawyer, a bespectacled elderly gentleman called Mr. Louis Golcombe. 

“Sir Julius inserted what they call a 'challenge clause'”, I told him. “Those thinking to do so would have to lodge a large sum which they would have lost if unsuccessful, as well as losing their share of the estate. He was a far-sighted gentleman was he not?”

“Not far-sighted enough to prevent his beneficiaries from getting outside help”, he pointed out. 

I smiled knowingly.

“Actually he was”, he said. “Another clause in the will stated that the beneficiaries would lose their entitlement if they had any moneys owing on the day that the final will was read. That included bills for using outside help.”

And I waved four cheques in his shocked face. I had got four lots of pay out of one case!

Fortunately Mr. Golcombe chose that moment to start the reading so my friend had to settle for a pout to express his displeasure. Quite why he was muttering that villains came in all shapes and sizes, I knew not.

“As you may know”, the lawyer said, peering at us all over the top of his spectacles, “Sir Julius planned to divide his estate on his death. Excluding minor bequests to more distant kin, friends and servants which have already been distributed, one part was to be placed in a trust fund and the income from it given to his wife if she outlived him, which indeed she did. Upon Lady Hammerford's death the capital in that fund was then to be divided equally between the Bishop of Hexham's Fund for Good Works and the Northumberland Police Widows and Orphans Fund.” 

There were some scowls from the assembled beneficiaries, who clearly did not like to hear of any of their money heading off to someone else. They were all leaning forward now in their eagerness, I noted.

“Sir Julius allocated this second part of his estate to his surviving close relatives”, Mr. Golcombe continued. “These were his grandson Sir George Lewis, his grandson Mr. Daniel Rotherby, his sister Mrs. Eleanor Crossley and his nephew Mr. Arthur Hammerford. You all know that certain conditions had to be met by each potential beneficiary, and I can confirm that each of the above named people did indeed qualify for what will be a quarter-share in that part of the estate.”

“How much do we get?” Mrs. Crossley demanded. 

_Classy,_ I thought. I blamed Watson for making me think like that.

“The funds were as I said to be divided equally”, the lawyer said. “Sir Julius asked also that that amount be made public. In sum total it is.... three farthings³.” He paused (quite unnecessarily in my opinion) before adding waspishly, “each.”

I know that it is a cliché but one really could have heard a pin drop. There was nearly a minute of silence before Mr. Arthur Hammerford found his voice.

“This is impossible!” he yelled. “Where is all our damn money?”

The lawyer winced at his loud tone.

“I am afraid that Sir Julius arranged matters so that the bulk of his funds were in the trust for his widow, to be passed on to charity thereafter”, he said. “You will of course have to sign for your 'inheritances'.”

He was dangerously close to smug, I thought. But given the poor examples of humanity – who had been played for fools and were now arguing bitterly amongst themselves – I supposed that he was just about justified in his attitude. Although I myself would have refrained from such open gloating.

Probably have refrained.

I would have _thought_ about refraining. That still counts!

MDCCCLXXX

Having four fees for one case meant that I could treat my friend to dinner at his favourite restaurant in Trafalgar Square, and after two slices of chocolate cake (with the rest purchased to go) he agreed that all had most definitely worked out for the best. 

Except, just possibly, for the four beneficiaries. Ah well.

MDCCCLXXX

_Notes:_  
_1) Robert Carey (1560-1639). At the time of his famous ride he was one of the Wardens of the Scottish March, responsible for securing the peace which had come to the area following the better relations between Elizabeth and James The Sixth. He was a second cousin to the late queen; his father Henry, Baron Hunsdon, was the son of Mary Boleyn, sister to Henry The Eight's ill-starred wife Anne. Robert was later (1626) made Earl of Monmouth but the title died out when his son died childless._  
_2) A small electorate (state entitled to a vote in the election of the old Holy Roman Emperor) in south-west Germany. It was centred around the towns of Heidelberg, Düsseldorf and Mannheim, its scattered lands spread across the modern German states of Pfalz, Baden and Bavaria._  
_3) About 32p (39c) at 2021 prices. The total inheritance was threepence in old money; it had to be at least that since mathematically that was the smallest amount that could be shared equally between two, three or four people, otherwise the will might have been successfully challenged as having been impossible to implement._

__

MDCCCLXXX


	5. The Troubled Tawer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May 1880. Occasionally one of Sherlock's investigations into something seemingly minor would reveal a darker crime. This was one such case, when what had at first looked like a simple mistake over a delivery was actually a foul attempt to ruin a London businessman.

While I was still working on the Hammerford Inheritance case I had a small matter which, to my alarm, involved Mrs. Evadne Hall who owned our Cramer Street property but lived far enough away so that we could not smell her (thankfully!). Her sister, our landlady Miss Hellingly, told us that Mrs. Hall had a tenant who was being difficult – admittedly my first thought was 'brave man!' for which I entirely blamed Watson – and wondered if I might help in some way. Desperately wishing not to be either suffocated or simpered at, I asked her to bring the details round to me and then made sure I was out when she arrived, so that when I returned and she was safely gone I could forward them to Moira to see if there was anything odd about them.

It was a good thing that I did as the tenant in question turned out to be not only mentally disturbed but also an escaped ward of one of the more prominent London families. I arranged for my friend Constable Wood from the Ricoletti case to 'happen to call by' Mrs. Hall's house – luckily it was not far from his beat – and he was able to secure the fellow, which earned him some deserved credit. Although I myself then had to endure a visit from Mrs. Hall who came round to thank me in person. Ugh!

She did however bring round a chocolate-cake in gratitude, which Watson pouted at me most deeply when I insisted on putting a couple of slices by for our police friends. And when I said that I _might_ let him have a slice as well, I received a look of such abject betrayal that it was a miracle I was able to keep a straight face!

Yes, he finished off the whole thing in less than twenty-four hours. And he still looked longingly at the cupboard where I had put aside the slices for our friends!

MDCCCLXXX

One of the less rarely asked (but less insane) questions about my time with Watson was as to why we so rarely investigated matters concerned with the many trades and businesses of the greatest metropolis in the world. The simple answer was that of course we did; however many of these cases were small if not trivial, and also most of the businesses naturally eschewed any publicity, which however innocent they were or were not would still have harmed them. They may say that there is no such thing as bad publicity, but they are wrong on that.

Watson has just suggested that any publicity about my mother’s stories would prove to be very bad publicity indeed. He really is getting worse, especially when he knows that he is right and teeters dangerously on the edge of a smirk. I cannot abide people who smirk too much!

Mr. Bulstrode Harrison was some forty or so years of age, tall, thin, blond going bald, and bore a faint resemblance to our friend Gregson who we would be seeing tomorrow as it was Miss Hellingly's baking-day. We might or might not also be seeing LeStrade as well – and the sun might or might not be rising in the east! I do not know how they had managed it but they had both contrived to call by 'on the off-chance' and had been able to collect their extra slices – unless they each had some sort of danger-detector which warned them my friend was covering their beloved cake!

“You see, Mr. Holmes”, the businessman said earnestly, “there is no way that this could have happened. Yet it did.”

I really wished that people would set themselves in order before bringing their cases to me. As I had said to Watson the other day, surely a little organization was not too much to ask? I had had no idea why he had looked around our main room and nodded rather too fervently. It was hardly my fault that Susan had fallen over while crossing my side of the place; at least she had helped me to find that missing cricket-ball.

“Perhaps you had better begin at the beginning”, I said, looking reprovingloy at my friend. “A simple mix-up of two similar-looking substances does not seem much to concern oneself about.”

“It may well have severely damaged my business”, Mr. Harrison said hotly, “and that is no small matter, let me tell you!”

“Tell us how it started”, Watson urged.

The fellow took a deep breath. 

“I am a tawer”, he said, “a member of a small but important trade. We are related to the tanners but we use alum and salt rather than tannin, creating a most excellent high-quality white leather that is always in demand.”

“I buy my alum, salt and certain other products from Hart's warehouse in the docks, as well as purchasing certain food items from them. They buy in bulk you see, so I save more than the proverbial ha'penny as well as time shopping elsewhere. It is an arrangement that has always worked well, until the other day.”

“What happened exactly?” I asked.

“The warehousemen delivered all the goods as per normal and my daughter Fenella sorted them for me”, he said. “The industrial products to my own workshop and my food purchases into the house. She does not of course have the strength to carry such heavy things; two of my men do that for her.”

“One part of the order was a number of bags of sugar which I usually divided up between my house, my office and the factory tea-room; however Fenella is training up to be a cook and this time she had two of the bags placed aside for her. But when she came to start using them this morning, one of the bags had salt in it!”

We both looked at him in surprise.

“Was it labelled as sugar?” I asked. 

Our guest nodded.

“Fortunately she was careful as always”, he said, “and checked the bag before using the contents. It is not like Hart's at all; they have a most excellent reputation and I have gladly recommended them to several of my business colleagues. If this sort of thing happens then my own good name may come into question.”

I knew that the proverbial good name was, despite the oftentimes questionable (and oftentimes borderline illegal!) behaviour of the average London businessman, deemed very important. I thought for a moment.

“Have you approached Mr. Hart on this?” I asked.

For some reason our guest reddened.

“That is rather difficult”, he said. “You see, Florrie and I are friends going all the way back to our schooldays, and I happen to know that he is struggling just now. A supplier overseas to whom he paid a large amount up front for some hard to obtain goods has decamped with his money, and the police in this country'... they are not exactly putting themselves out to help.”

I thought quietly that I could pull a few strings in that direction if needed. First things first, however.

“I shall have to see this Mr. Hart”, I said. “I think that it may depend on the other matter at hand.”

“What other matter?” he asked. “Are you busy on another case?”

“I am”, I said, thinking of the then still ongoing Hammerford case, “but that is not the issue at hand here. Since you had a bag of sugar that contained salt, then there is the possibility that somewhere out there there is someone with a bag of salt that contains sugar. If that is the case I very much doubt that they will be happy when they make that discovery. I wonder....”

I thought back to Mr. Vamberry, and the hypothesis I had briefly entertained that his renegade brother might be behind his business troubles. There was more than one way to drive a man to his ruin, especially in the often cut-throat world of commerce. Also, this happening so soon after Mr. Hart’s problems with that factory in France looked decidedly suspicious.

“We will take this case for you, sir”, I said. “We will go and see Mr. Hart this very day.”

MDCCCLXXX

“Why the urgency?” Watson asked me once our visitor had gone. “Surely it is only a matter of two packages getting swapped round?”

“Think”, I urged. “Mr. Hart's business is in trouble, possibly trouble caused by a competitor. What better time for someone with a grudge against him – possibly the villain behind this French factory thing – to arrange something which may be the proverbial straw that breaks the camel's back. If that is the case then they are going to make every effort to see that that second 'mistake' comes to light sooner rather than later.”

MDCCCLXXX

Mr. Florizel Hart – we were ratcheting up the unusual Christian names in this adventure! – was a worried-looking dark-haired gentleman also in his forties with a notable scar down the left side of his face. He was most alarmed when we explained the purpose of our visit.

“I must thank Bully for not making a fuss”, he said. “But if what you say is true, then there is every likelihood that someone else will.”

“I know that businessmen by their nature make few friends in this world”, I said, “but is there anyone in particular who may have cause to resent you recently?”

The fellow scratched his thinning pate.

“I had to sack a fellow I caught stealing”, he admitted. “Williamson; it was probably a mistake to employ him in the first place but his brother-in-law worked here and recommended him. Charcombe; he was most annoyed at my actions and gave me his week's notice. Today is his last day.”

I thought that that too was suspicious. Men in such a position did not usually have the luxury of acting 'on principle', unless of course they had money coming in from elsewhere. For example, from someone who was willing to pay in order to see a businessman driven to ruin and had offered their 'plants' employment if they helped in achieving their diabolical aims.

“He is in the warehouse now?” I asked.

“He is”, Mr. Hart said. “He was supposed to be out on deliveries but.... I am afraid that I assumed the worst and kept him here.”

“I am afraid that he may well have already done the worst,” I said. “Is there anyone else that you could think of?”

“June Sharpen”, he said at once. “My worst customer, who I cannot seem to get rid of. She is always complaining that such an item is short or some other item is missing. I have insisted that the delivery boys get a signature from her that the order is correct, rather than just dropping things off like they can do with other customers.”

I had a sudden idea.

“This Mrs. Sharpen”, I said. “Is she perchance diabetic?”

Watson looked at me curiously, as did our host.

“No, but her stepson Gregory is”, Mr. Hart said. “He is sixteen now; mercifully he took after his late father rather than his mother who is passed, but was little better than the current Mrs. Sharpen if truth be told. She comes from somewhere over in British India and is running things for him until he is of age. Why did you ask that?”

“Just a hunch”, I said, rising to my feet. “Since Mr. Charcombe is still on the premises I doubt that anything will happen today, but I expect that you to have a caller first thing Monday. When do you open, sir?”

“The men start work at five”, he said, “but I do not get here until eight. I have a smaller shop over in Whitechapel and I have to open it up first.”

“Then we shall be here shortly before eight o' clock Monday morning”, I said. “Hopefully we shall be able to help you achieve a resolution of matters to your satisfaction.”

MDCCCLXXX

One of the many ways in which I valued Watson as a friend was his ability to sense when I did not want to talk about something. We detoured via Mark's house on the way home but he was not back from work yet, so I left a message with Tiny who, bastard that he was, said that he would make sure Mr. Mark 'got it'. Even without that damnably annoying smirk from on high I was sure that my brother would indeed get it – _and the message!_ I might have said something but Tiny was about twice my size, so I most generously refrained.

Watson's smirk when we had two policemen callers at Cramer Street the following day was also annoying. And that innocent look he came out with afterwards was not even remotely believable!

Thankfully what was left of Mark still came through for me and I was able to depart for Mr. Hart's warehouse where I had a little surprise for someone. Not Mr. Charcombe and Mr. Williamson who were already in a police-station cell having had a rather abrupt early morning wake-up call. Sure enough, there was Mrs. Sharpen champing at the bit outside the warehouse, clearly annoyed that she had not been allowed in to wait. She was an unpleasant-looking dark-skinned woman of about forty years of age, one of those who had clearly thought that several tons of make-up could make her look less unpleasant (which it had not). She looked down her nose at us both when we arrived.

Mr. Hart arrived on time and I was not the least bit surprised that Mrs. Sharpen almost pushed past him on his way into the office.

“What's this about you trying to poison my son?” the harridan demanded, taking a seat without even being asked.

“You are referring to the sugar in a bag labelled 'salt' that was delivered to your premises last Wednesday”, I said.

She looked at me suspiciously. I definitely detected a simper in there somewhere, though. Ugh!

“Who are _you_ , sir?” she demanded.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes”, I said airily. “And this is Doctor John Watson. Make yourself comfortable, madam. Our friend Sergeant Gregson will be here to arrest you very shortly, in about” - I looked at my watch - “two minutes from now.”

“Arrest _me?”_ she spluttered. “What on earth for?”'

“For your role in an attempt to ruin an honest businessman like Mr. Hart here”, I said. “You see, I – or rather my cousin who works for the government – had a rather busy weekend. First there was the uncovering of who was behind the North Picardy Supplies Warehouse whose fraudulent acts were so costly to Mr. Hart to the point that they nearly destroyed his business. That person was you, madam. You also conspired with one of his employees who resented the quite correct sacking of his incompetent brother-in-law, in swapping two bags of salt and sugar. You intended to go to the newspapers and claim that that mistake nearly cost your diabetic son his life.”

She spluttered angrily at me, but could not find any words for a defence. Because there were none.

“The police have proof of your French links”, I said, “and also evidence that you paid a substantial sum into the accounts of your accomplices. Who, I suspect, will as they say these days 'sing like canaries' when they are questioned. Ah, I see from the shadow at the door that Gregson is on time as per usual so I advise you, madam, to contact your lawyer.”

She glared at me, but knew that she had lost. Gregson entered and handcuffed her (unnecessarily, but then I asked him to) before escorting the villainess from the room.

MDCCCLXXX

“So you see”, I said to Mr. Harrison, “the mistake in the order to your business was no mistake at all. It would allow the miscreants to claim, as they probably will still try to do when it comes to court, that you had shoddy work practices which nearly killed a young man.”

“I am sorry for young Gregory, though”, the business-man said. “Florrie said that he was a decent lad, undeserving of such a stepmother. His poor father would turn in his grave if he knew!”

“I will arrange for Mrs. Sharpen’s business to be transferred to her stepson as of right”, I said. “Fortunately his paternal uncle is also in business and can guide him through the next few years. It is indeed not right that the sins of such a terrible woman be visited on an innocent young man. I shall also call in a favour with a journalistic friend of mine who will make a big thing of how Mr. Hart was the victim here, as well as getting my brother to make sure that all the funds Mrs. Sharpen effectively stole from your friend are returned with interest.”

“A good ending all round”, Watson smiled.

He was happy with what I had achieved. That alone made it worth it.

MDCCCLXXX


	6. Fake It Till You Make It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> June 1880. Post-election problems add to the workload of Sergeant LeStrade, along with a visiting police lieutenant from the United States who seems set on rubbing everyone up the wrong way. So he calls on his friend Mr. Holmes for help, something that may or may not happen on a baking-day (hint: LeStrade).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Columbo crossover.

I was frustrated.

I was now the best part of a year since I had resolved to try to sort out the problems of LeStrade and his family living in such an unhealthy environment that two of his family members had had to be sent to the countryside, and I was making precious little progress. LeStrade, his wife, their four remaining children; all I needed to do was to find somewhere fairly central and preferably within the walking-distance of both his current station (although given the way they moved men around these days, that was not so much of an issue) and, more importantly, a good bakery. And close to here so that he could 'happen to drop by' every one of our landlady's baking-days. And in a decent setting. And at a price he could afford.

I had asked Watson to keep an eye out on his travels in case he came across anything that might be suitable, and he had remarked that it was good of me to care for a friend. A strange comment, I had thought; what else did one do with money except look after those who needed looking after and were either friends or family? This was before the age of what they now call 'big government' when those with money were expected to be philanthropic and could expect comment from their peers if they were not. Although it had been arguably wrong of my friend to suggest mentioning the P-word to Randall and then counting the seconds until he could work out what it meant.

Wrong for some reason or other. There had to be one somewhere.

Idiot that I was, I had commented on my house-finding problems to Logan and had remarked that surely it could not be that hard, and Ajax had for once piped up with 'with me it always is, isn't it sir?'. And the bastard had looked at my brother in a way.... I had brought our meeting to a very sudden conclusion but not quickly enough to avoid hearing a loud moan as I made my escape. Family!

I was therefore not surprised when LeStrade happened by Cramer Street one warm late spring day. Although his frazzled state was unexpected; he had not as far as I knew had any great matters to hand of late.

“Ah, LeStrade”, I smiled. “Long time no see.”

Watson, bastard that he is at times, definitely muttered something suspiciously like 'as far back as the last baking-day'. I scowled at him; he knew how annoying it was when he was right over such things. And he was still very clearly resentful at only getting three-quarters of Mrs. Hall's chocolate-cake with the last quarter having been shared out between our policemen friends. Indeed he had even tried to suggest that it was a waste putting slices by for them 'as they might not call round in time.'

_Not call round when there was cake to be had? Really? What planet was this man on?_

“You look exhausted, LeStrade”, I said. “Surely the King Street Robbery is not still a problem?”

He shook his head and bit into the upside-down cake. There was a definite sigh of happiness there, and I supposed that I had to allow Watson that eye-roll. This once.

“I have a difficult case”, he said, his features relaxing in the presence of the blesséd cake. “You know that Mr. Disraeli took a pounding at the general election recently?”

“Yes”, I said. “Neither the doctor nor I have much interest in politics but it affects my business sometimes.”

,i>(I should probably add here that tenants having the vote was a recent development, having been brought about by the Second Reform Act of 1867 so just thirteen years back. Ironically it had been pushed through by Mr. Disraeli's Conservative government in the expectation that it would benefit them, only for them to lose the election to Mr. Gladstone's Liberals the following year. The law had increased the number of men eligible to vote from around 1½ million to 2½ million, out of a population of around 15 million men so still some way to go).

“There's this rule that politicos who have served more than a set time in high office get sent upstairs to the Lords”, our visitor said, staring mournfully at a plate that would not need to be washed as he had all but licked it clean. “All very la-di-da in my opinion especially as it'll only be those too unpopular to keep getting elected. The rule is the losing party only gets to send up one fellow, but two of Mr. Disraeli's friends who lost their seats both qualify.”

I nodded.

“I take it that Mr. Gladstone is not prepared to make an exception?” I asked, frowning.

“You know how those two gentlemen are, sir”, he said. “Always at each other hammer and tongs. I suppose it's their being in the same line of work.”

I shot a warning look across at Watson, who I just knew was about to draw a pot and a kettle in his notes. Sure enough he blushed fiercely.

“Do you know something about this already, sir?” LeStrade asked.

I shook my head.

“I was just wondering why Randall has not mentioned the matter to me”, I said. “This is exactly the sort of thing that he relishes sticking his nose in, yet he has not come round over it.”

“Small mercies!” Watson muttered.

That really was.... all right, in fairness I had to let him have that one as I had been thinking something vaguely similar. As in exactly the same.

“Both Mr. Michael Hazleton and Mr. Egbert Riseley are adamant that _they_ are entitled to the ermine”, our visitor said. “Mr. Hazleton has the longer service but Mr. Riseley has the blue blood. Mr. Disraeli is said to hate the pair of them so we agree on something, and I bet he'll enjoy stringing them along for a bit.”

We were interrupted by Susan bringing in the newspaper, so I waited until Watson had crossed to take it from her and she had gone before continuing.

“Your other problem?” I asked, wondering if it was to do with his house.

“The station's got a visiting detective from America”, he sighed. “Lieutenant Frank Columbo, just starting out and a painfully keen tyro if ever there was one. He's a pain! Questions questions questions, and I can't turn around without falling over him! Plus he looks like he fell off the back of a cart, though as he's a visitor to these shores I can't say anything.”

I caught Watson looking as if he was about to make some snarky comment about the appearance of some people. I glared menacingly at him; that innocent look only made me suspect even more that he had been about come out with some smart comment about someone in this room who was not staring dolefully at an empty plate!

“Going back to your first problem”, I said, still looking reprovingly at my friend, “why should a political argument between two politicians concern a London sergeant?”

“Mr. Hazleton complained that someone shot at him when he was walking in the park near our station”, our visitor sighed. “Most likely one of those cap guns; we don't shoot politicians in this country. More's the pity some would say!”

“I rather think that you might have to change that opinion”, Watson said from where he was reading the newspaper. “Mr. Hazleton has just been shot at a second time and has sustained a severe injury. He is expected to recover but it was a close-run thing.”

LeStrade sighed and looked again at the empty plate. He was likely counting the number of hours until Miss Hellingly's next baking-day.....

_Damn Watson!_

MDCCCLXXX

Since I knew that LeStrade had gone off on his rounds – unlike some sergeants I could mention in the Metropolitan Police Service, he knew how to use his legs and did not live behind his desk – I decided to make my way to where I knew Mr. Riseley and Mr. Hazleton lived (both in Mayfair, of course!). They lived in adjoining squares in one of the perhaps less rich parts of the district, but it was still horribly expensive and there was a general snootiness about the place that I did not like. I knew that Moira and her husband lived here which fact rather surprised me, but then I supposed a politician had to have a home in a 'nice' area for all the entertaining (or as my sister called it, 'sucking up to people who I would like to slap very hard, and about who I find out bad things just for fun'). 

The one odd thing about the area was that it seemed to have acquired a tramp from somewhere, who was ambling along the pavement to the stunned disbelief of those who saw him. I noted that one or two approached him only for him to show them what looked like his wallet, after which they left him while still looking perturbed. 

This was odd, even for London!

I decided to approach the fellow and see who he was. He was in his early twenties, unshaven, short with dark curly hair and wearing a thin grey-brown coat that had seen better days and may have even seen the last century! He smiled at me when I approached.

“Folks round here are a bit, aren't they, sir?” he said cheerfully. “I'm Lieutenant Columbo. Frank Columbo, over from the States.”

This must be LeStrade's American tyro, then. Quite what the United States was thinking in sending us this, the Good Lord alone knew. Unless they were still cross with our having helped the Confederacy during their recent Civil War? 

“I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes”, I said, “a friend of Sergeant LeStrade's. He mentioned that you were helping him with his political case.”

“Politicians are the same everywhere in the world, sir”, he said cheerfully. “To be trusted as much as a rattlesnake.”

He was arguably right in that. No, he was definitely right in that!

“Have you had any luck with your investigation?” I asked.

“I made some inquiries as to Mr. Riseley, sir”, he said. “He was attending a party at your Houses of Parliament the whole time. But he could've used a third party.”

I thought that all too likely. Mr. Riseley was one of those few but annoying anti-gun people who always refused to have anything to do with guns and was also reputedly highly-strung, having had a panic attack when someone had once fired a gun near him (not at him, worse luck). 

“We don't usually shoot our political rivals in this country”, I said, wondering if for once our American cousins had something over us in this area.

He looked at me curiously.

“Small price to pay perhaps, sir?” he offered.

“What do you mean?” I asked. 

“Well, for keeping him in the news while the decision is being made”, he said. “Even if your Mr. Riseley has an alibi people will still think he got someone else to do it for him. A few weeks of pain for Mr. Hazleton might be worth it for a place in your House of Lords.”

He was far too cynical, even for an American. He was also possibly far too correct.

“How could it be proved?” I asked reasonably. “I would not wish to encourage my friend to step up and accuse a top politician of lying, not in my position. He would be out of a job before sunset!”

He looked at me shrewdly.

“Mr. LeStrade, he says that you've a few what he calls 'interesting friends'”, he said. “Perhaps one of them might be handy?”

I was beginning to be glad that this fellow was an honest man. He might otherwise have made a fearsome adversary!

MDCCCLXXX

The following day LeStrade, Lieutenant Columbo, Watson and I met near Mr. Hazleton's house. Quite why Watson looked at the Lieutenant, then at me before exchanging a knowing look with LeStrade, I could not guess. 

“Half-past ten”, I said. “Any minute now.”

“Someone is coming”, LeStrade said, looking to where a smartly-attired delivery-man holding a small parcel was walking along looking at the various house names. Sure enough he reached 'Lion House', went up the steps and rang the bell. A footman answered and they had words, then the servant stepped back into the house.

“Is that not Mr. Riseley?” Watson asked as a second and somewhat rotund gentleman stopped in his progress along the side of the square just by the house. 

I shook my head.

“An actor friend of mine disguised to look like him”, I said. “Not that that politician is much better than our quarry, but I happen to know that he will have a strong alibi about now.”

“What sort of alibi?” LeStrade asked.

“He is attending Lady Bracklesham's engagement party”, I said.

“Disgusting!”, Watson muttered. “Sixty if she is a day despite her claim to be forty-nine, and getting engaged to a young buck barely half her age.”

He did not notice that both the lieutenant and LeStrade were smiling at his mysteriously wide knowledge of the social scene. Then I recognized Mr. Hazleton coming to the door and the delivery-man presumably telling him that he had to sign for the item in person. 

Mr. Hazleton was holding the notebook when he looked up and saw the figure of what he must have presumed was his rival now just a few yards away on the pavement – a rival who had suddenly produced a gun and was aiming it straight at him. He yelped in horror, threw the notebook at the delivery man and turned to flee back into the house but.....

Ouch! Oh well, better the back than the front.

The four of us immediately hurried over to the house; the delivery-man and the shooter had both made swift exits and I had to whisper to LeStrade not to pursue either of them (I noted with interest that the lieutenant did not have to be so told). The door to the house was still open as two footmen had helped the stricken man inside, and we all four piled in. 

Mr. Hazleton was sat on a large couch in the ridiculously large hallway, looking shocked.

“That bastard shot me!” he gasped.

“I am a doctor”, Watson said. “That wound must be attended to immediately. Let us get you to a room so you can be tended to.”

As I had known would happen, the man's face suddenly paled.

“Er, that is all right thank you”, he said. “I can send a servant to get my own doctor, Heath. He lives only a couple of streets away.”

“I suppose that that is understandable”, I said. “Provided of course that the bullet was not poisoned or anything, you _should_ survive.”

He contrived to turn even paler.

“P... p... poisoned?” he gasped.

“Oh yes”, I said. “Very fast-acting some of the latest ones; death follows in as little as a quarter of an hour if it is not removed and the wound cleansed. But you _may_ be lucky if you really want to wait for your own doctor to arrive. Assuming of course that he is not out somewhere. Or you _may_ not.”

I could see the conflicting emotions on the fellow's face, and the exact moment that he cracked.

“Doctor?” he quavered.

MDCCCLXXX

I suppose that there were more pleasurable sights that a crooked politician pleading not to have his misdoings broadcast to the world. Somewhere. But I would settle for this right now.

“This is disgusting!” Watson thundered at the quivering wreck before him. “I remove a bullet from your backside and I find that you have suffered no injury to your leg whatsoever.”

“But that rat shot at me!” Mr. Hazleton whined. “You must have seen him!”

“Seen who?” the lieutenant asked with an impressive show of innocence.

“Egg-head Riseley”, Mr. Hazleton said. “He was right there with a gun. I saw him with my own eyes!”

“Rather unfortunately for you”, I said, “I happen to know that Mr. Riseley is currently attending Lady Bracklesham's engagement party where he doubtless has any number of witnesses to hand. Let alone the fact that it is well known he is terrified of guns and would never be capable of shooting one.”

“The worst thing is that Doctor Heath had to have been involved in this cover-up!” Watson snapped. “I shall be having words with his employers about such malpractice.”

“He will probably claim that Mr. Hazleton here paid him so to do”, I said diffidently. “That would no doubt reduce the sanctions to be levied against him, and might even save his career – if of course he can provide proof of those payments.”

Judging from the sudden redness of Mr. Hazleton's face, I guessed that his doctor in question _did_ have proof of those payments. I heard LeStrade manage (just) to turn a chuckle into a cough.

“It is a pity that you were not prepared to suffer a little more pain for such a great gain”, I went on. “Mr. Disraeli will no doubt nominate Mr. Riseley for elevation to the House of Lords, and you..... doubtless you will be in the 'Times' too. If perhaps for rather less salubrious reasons.”

Who knew that even politicians knew such language?

MDCCCLXXX

“How come you suspected him of lying about the attack?” LeStrade asked the lieutenant as we all walked back to the station. 

The American grinned slyly.

“Two things really”, he said. “First, as I said, never trust a politician. They're crooks both sides of the Pond and there's no trick they won't stoop to if it gets them to the top.”

“And second?” Watson asked.

“I was out with Constable Knowles while the sergeant here was 'just happening' to visit Mr. Holmes here on one of his landlady's baking-days”, he said (LeStrade scowled at him, then at Watson for an arguably rather ill-timed cough). “We came through Arthur Square just as he was seeing his wife off in their carriage. Not a trace of a limp on him despite his supposed near-death injury.”

“So you knew all along?” I asked. 

He nodded.

“Mrs. Columbo said to always watch folks in power”, he said. “Like everything else, she's right about that.”

“She did not accompany you on this trip?” I asked. 

He shook his head.

“She hates sea-travel”, he said. “Luckily we live out west so I shall have plenty of time.”

“Plenty of time for what?” LeStrade asked.

“To plan the biggest bunch of flowers for when I get back”, he said. “Every woman loves to be wanted, sergeant. _Almost as much as some policemen love cake!”_

How I held back a smile, I did not know!

MDCCCLXXX


	7. The Sooty Solution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> July 1880. In a case that has nothing to do with either chimney-sweeps or railway-locomotives, Sherlock has to be doubly devious to manoeuvre his friend LeStrade into obtaining an excellent new home. Without arousing his suspicions.

They do say that appearances are deceptive. But when I heard what Tiny had come round for, even I was surprised.

“Nothing?” I asked.

The behemoth blushed deeply. I had thought that Mark must have sent him round because..... well, because my brother was likely 'indisposed' again, and at least this time he had had the courtesy not to send me a telegram informing me of that fact. Also I had noted that he hardly ever came round since he had acquired Tiny, as we lived in second-floor rooms which meant a lot of stairs.... and I was thinking of That again!

“I was hoping you and the doctor might tell Mr. Mark a bit of a fib, sir”, the behemoth said, blushing deeply.

“Why?” Watson asked suspiciously.

“Poor Mr. Mark is stressed over this war out in the East somewhere¹, and something he says the French have done as well²”, Tiny said, somehow looking even more embarrassed. “He's down, and I don't like it when he's down. I thought the doctor might tell him I'd gone to him for an injury after one of our games. He'd be so happy!”

I looked at him in confusion. 

“Mark would be happy that you are hurt?” I asked incredulously.

For some reason Watson chortled over at his table.

“He means that your brother would think he had been 'man enough' to have caused such an injury”, he grinned, making me wonder again just why I kept him around. “Do not worry, Tiny' I can let slip to Mr. Mark that 'Big Tiny' needed some very special unguent!”

I glared at him. Like I needed _that_ sort of mental image in my head!

MDCCCLXXX

If asked to make a list of things I considered somewhere between extremely unlikely and impossible, I could have come up with quite an impressive list. LeStrade and Gregson not 'just happening' to come round on one of our land-lady's baking-days, Randall/Hilton/Evelith behaving with more than one scruple of humanity, Hope keeping her voice down, Logan and Mark knowing when not to share things, Mycroft smiling, Moira not being smug.....

For now however all those had been superseded by the miracle of the visitor sat on our fireside couch. Not, perhaps thankfully, the chair as I doubted that it could have coped with Inspector Alexander MacDonald's impressive musculature, his frame the broadest pair of shoulders I had ever seen on a fellow man. Had he not been married (unhappily, I knew from both Gregson and LeStrade; there were few secrets in the Service), he would have made an impressive addition to Logan's Debating Society empire, something for which the criminals and perhaps even the police-officers under him might have preferred. That he would have cause to even approach a consulting-detective was miracle enough. But the reason for his advent was even stranger.

“I know Gawain, sir, perhaps better than you”, the inspector said. “He is smart, too smart not to know when something is not right. He told me that he is worried about his house so I thought you would be doing something about that, especially when I heard that the factory around the corner from him had bucked their ideas up of late.”

He looked at me pointedly. I could not help thinking that rather like Ajax, this fellow could easily bury my body without breaking into a sweat. Which was just unfair; I was above average height so why were so many gentlemen of my acquaintance yet bigger (and in this case wider) than me?

“He is a friend”, I said, “and I do what I can to help my friends.”

The inspector looked thoughtfully at me.

“It strikes me”, he said, “that there might be a house coming up for sale that would suit him well. We both know that although he is not rich, he could afford somewhere suitable for him and his family.”

“I have put out feelers”, I admitted. “Unfortunately as you can imagine. there are are certain requirements that narrow the field somewhat.”

He snorted at that.

“It does not _have_ to be near a bakery!” he said (apparently he did know LeStrade well). “Gawain is a good copper, and Lord knows there are few enough of those at his level. I have an idea that might help things along.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“A dead cat!”

MDCCCLXXX

Mercifully there was rather more to the inspector's suggestion which was frankly brilliant, and made me add him to the list of people who I was fervently glad to have on the right side of the law. It would take some organizing but the place he had suggested was suitable in all aspects, even the bakery one, and with a little careful planning I could have the LeStrades in there by mid-summer.

MDCCCLXXX

Miss Hellingly's next baking-day lay only two days away, so Watson and I were able to see our friend when he inevitably 'just happened to drop by on his rounds'. He looked strangely thoughtful, which was good.

“Is there a problem, LeStrade?” I asked as I cut him a slice of sponge cake.

I could almost _hear_ Watson thinking 'only if he starts licking the pattern off the plate' as our friend took the dish and demolished half the slice in one go. I shot my friend a warning look and he looked pointedly back to where.... oh come on, already?

Thankfully the grub finished swallowing before he spoke. There was definitely a wistful sigh in there, though.

“I had to go interview a couple in Britten Boulevard”, he said. “They had this place they were selling that was great, but the boss thinks that they're up to something. He thought that if I asked them some questions they would think we were on to them and it might make them do something stupid.”

“That is sometimes a good tactic”, I said. “What are they like, this couple?”

“Actually there's three of them”, LeStrade said, “but I only had to see the couple, not their tenant. A Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence Palliser. Right snooty pair in their early forties. Their lodger was a bit odd, though.”

“In what way?” Watson asked.

“I thought he wanted to say something to me”, LeStrade said, “but they kept steering me away. Mrs. Palliser even insisted on showing me around the garden which was good, but that's not something you usually do when a copper calls. Even innocent folks tend to clam up and show you as little as they can get away with. I was sure that the lodger would find a reason to follow me out afterwards so I hung around the area for a bit, but he never came.”

“Why are they selling if it is such a nice place?” Watson asked.

“She said that they had come into money unexpectedly but they have to go to the States to get it”, LeStrade said, sounding dubious about that. “Don't know what it was about them but they didn't ring true to me for some reason.”

“They sound rather odd”, I said. “If it is all right you you, I may make one or two inquiries of my own into them. Just to be sure.”

“Of course, sir”, he said. “I can pop back next week maybe and you can tell me how they're going.”

And if he does not choose Miss Hellingly's baking-day next week.... as I said, I did not know which was worse; Watson's contagious cynicism or the fact that I knew the villain was bound to be right! I glared at him for his presumption and the (other) villain had the brass neck to look all innocent! Harrumph!

MDCCCLXXX

Susan showed LeStrade in again the very next day, then quite shamelessly stopped on her way out to double-check the calendar. Fortunately Watson managed to hide his amusement in a coughing-fit, but I still glared at him. His cynicism was indeed spreading!

“Mrs. Palliser put in a missing persons report”, the sergeant said anxiously. Her lodger Mr. Summers or 'Ralphie' as she called him, has disappeared. He went out yesterday evening and did not come back.”

I frowned.

“I did try to do some research into the Pallisers”, I said. “From what I can gather they seem to be of Italian extraction, and it seems that their arrival to England two years back was, shall we say, forced. That might be the real reason they wish to move on to America. I cannot find out anything about the lodger; he may have been a mere prop.”

LeStrade looked at me in confusion.

“What do you mean, sir?” he asked.

“Part of what the French call the _mise en scène”_ ,” I said. “If one wishes to portray the image of the average suburban family then a lodger makes it that much more convincing. It might also deter any pursuers; they would likely look first for a couple living alone. The danger is of course that the lodger discovers their secret, after which his own life is..... well, as you said he has disappeared.”

“Or has been disappeared!” Watson snarked, maybe accurately but definitely ungrammatically.

“The trouble is, it will take ages to get a warrant to search their house by which time they will be long gone”, I said. “We need to look round there today.”

“You could always turn up as a buyer?” Watson suggested.

“That is an excellent idea, Watson!” I said. “LeStrade, I will accompany you as a friend – we can use my mother's maiden name and make me Mr. O' Reilly – and you can offer to put a bid in if you can have twenty-four hours to talk to your bank. If they have hidden the remains of poor Mr. Summers anywhere in that house, I am sure that we can find him!”

MDCCCLXXX

Some time later we were walking away down Britten Boulevard. LeStrade was looking a shade green.

“I didn't think they'd do that”, he admitted. “I mean, three hundred quid!³ That's barely half their asking price, which was good to start with!”

“But they want to close today if possible”, I said. “Could you get round to the bank and arrange things?”

He looked at me in surprise.

“Why not just wait until tomorrow?” he asked. “They're not going anywhere.”

“They might be”, I said. “Remember what you said about how pristine their lawns were?”

“Yes. So?”

“They are no longer so pristine”, I said. “There is a small gravestone to one 'Sooty' situated by the shed – except that the ground there is not only newly-dug, but the deceased feline must have been at leats six foot in length.”

I looked meaningfully at him. He went pale as he got it.

“You mean they..... oh hell!”

“Even I cannot speed the judicial system along fast enough to get a warrant to search the place before tomorrow”, I said, “and I noted that both the Pallisers are armed. I caught Mr. Palliser moving his hand to his pocket several times while he was showing us round, particularly when we were near poor 'Sooty'.”

“But I can't give money to crooks, sir”, my friend objected.

“We are not one hundred per cent sure that they _are_ crooks”, I said. “And if they do flee we can likely catch them; I doubt that they will get far. No, we need possession of that house now. They said that they are going into town, did they not?”

He looked at me suspiciously.

“You're not saying we should break in?” he asked warily.

“No”, I said. “But think. If we meet them in town and you hand over the money, that gives you immediate legal possession. You could have some boys ready to move in and dig up 'Sooty' just minutes later, then we could be sure.”

He nodded and we hurried on towards his bank. Mark had already had Words with them, so I knew that there would be no problems there.

MDCCCLXXX

The Pallisers were delighted to sell their house to LeStrade and said that they would call for their things in the morning as they were staying with someone across town. Once we had the deeds to the house LeStrade wired immediately to his boys, who descended on the garden and dug up 'Sooty'. 

And they duly found – _Sooty!_

MDCCCLXXX

“I do not believe it!” LeStrade groaned. “Burying a damn toy-cat? What is wrong with people these days?”

I hesitated.

“I know that their actions may seem strange”, I said, “but I rather think that they make sense. At least to the Pallisers, or whatever their real names are.”

He looked at me in confoundment.

“How?” he demanded. “There's no way they can make any sense, at least not in this world!”

“I am rather afraid that the Pallisers are no more”, I said. “I have found out a little more on them in the past few days. They did indeed flee Italy because they managed to annoy someone rather high up in the world of the Mafia, and furthermore someone who was not going to let a little thing like their being a few hundred miles away prevent him from ordering their death.”

“It is the way of the Mafia to, as they say, cover all the angles. They dispatched several men to track down the Pallisers, and eventually one managed to find them. Presumably they must have left Italy with a large sum of money because, rather than killing them straight away, this man simply disguised himself as a lodger and got taken in by them. The viper in the nest.”

LeStrade frowned.

“But why did they not recognize another Eye-tie?” he asked.

“Mr. Summers is in fact a German assassin”, I said, “And I had his presence in England confirmed by an acquaintance of mine. He has since left, along with the money stolen by the Pallisers. The house that you purchased was legally theirs, and they sold it to you under legal contract so it is now yours. Along with 'Sooty'.”

Our friend sighed, then nodded.

“At least there's a bakery down the road from it”, he sighed. “It could've been a lot worse.”

MDCCCLXXX

“I do hope he will not find out how he has been duped”, Watson said once our friend had left.

“He will not”, I said confidently. “There will be a few further 'revelations' to confirm our little charade over the coming days, and Inspector MacDonald will pull our friend in to question him most intensely about his actions before agreeing reluctantly to let it slide. Whereas it was he who helped arrange the whole thing.”

“Who would have thought it with his character?” Watson sighed. “His face seems set permanently to frown. But then I have seen his wife, so perhaps I can understand that.”

I nodded and returned to my book, both of us blissfully unaware just how the inspector's unhappy family life would one day draw in us and nearly result in a death.

MDCCCLXXX

_Notes:_   
_1) The Second Afghan War (1878-1880)._   
_2) The French annexation of the Kingdom of Tahiti. This prompted alarm in Great Britain as the British policy until then had been to maintain treaties with the small but scattered kingdoms on each island group, and led eventually to someone from that part of the world coming to England. With.... interesting results._   
_3) The surge in house prices against inflation makes a cash modern comparison meaningless, but at £495 the house would have cost about six times LeStrade's annual salary (he paid about three and a half times it, give or take). As a three-bedroom house in a decent area of London it was likely underpriced by at least a quarter to start with._

MDCCCLXXX


	8. The Fantastic Spencer John Gang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> August 1880. A face from the past brings an unusual problem for Holmes – can there really be 'the wrong sort of criminal'? A small matter that grew progressively darker and which required some irregular (illegal) methods to resolve it. Including another murder.

My fears about Watson departing these islands to 'do his patriotic duty' only increased that summer after our Nation suffered a set-back¹ in its war to settle or at least pacify the ever-turbulent Afghanis, and I very much feared that he might decide to sign up. I was therefore grateful to my brother Mark who assured me that the situation on the ground over there was a lot better than had been reported in the newspapers and that he expected the conflict to be over and done with in a couple of months, which information I was able to pass on to my friend.

I was less grateful that I now once again had an elder brother far too full of himself and boasting that he had 'even broken Tiny' after the behemoth's kindness in inveigling us into that small deception of his. But no big brother should ever be allowed to get too full of themselves, so I arranged for Tiny to have a whole double-bag of 'supplies' for the coming weekend when Mark was taking him on a yacht down to somewhere in Essex. Well, at least they could bury my brother at sea if the behemoth finally finished him off.

I was sure that he would make a lovely splash!

MDCCCLXXX

Criminals, as the saying goes, come in all shapes, sizes and strange disguises. This case, which started with a visit from someone whom we had helped out in a previous matter, would end with the untimely (but not undeserved) death of one of the upholders of the law, the fifth death in an unusually high body-count even by my standards. Yet in the circumstances there was no other way for it to have ended. Coming so soon after the comparative levity of the Hammerford Will business and the lesser cases that had passed during that lengthy business, it seemed doubly dark in that year of 'Eighty. 

It was August when a familiar figure graced our rooms in Cramer Street. It was Mr. Gregor Kuznetsov whom I had helped clear over the theft of the 'Two Ladies' painting four years ago. He had changed quite a bit in those few years, most thankfully in that his bizarre attempt at what had presumably been meant to have be a moustache had been seen for the egregious error that it most definitely had been. Pleasantries were exchanged – I made sure to again convey my thanks to his father for his help in the sordid Tankerville Club business – before we got down to business.

“I will always be grateful for you help in clearing me over that painting, sir”, the criminal said. “Recently a rather curious matter has come to my father's attention and he wonders if you might take some time to look at it.”

“I would of course be delighted”, I said. “Curious how, exactly?” 

“Have you read anything about the Spencer John Gang?”

“I tend to rely on Watson to keep me abreast of the papers”, I grinned, “even if he spends far too long on those society-pages of his!”

I could just see that my friend was, beneath the all too predictable pout, wondering if our guests provided a service for the timely dispatch of teasing consulting-detectives. Especially when I shook my head at him and he blushed fiercely.

And _there_ was the pout!

“There were behind the Marylebone Station robbery two weeks ago”, my friend said crossly. “That is their third successful major haul, or at least the third one that has actually been reported. The newspapers are speculating that there may have been more although they often do that, but then if the authorities 'forget' to tell them things or try to slip them out later when they think that no-one is looking, then that is to be expected.”

He was right on that. I often thought that the Metropolitan Police Service often displayed a lamentable understanding of human nature when it tried to keep things from people although as both this case and the next would prove, they were more than capable of displaying that same lamentable understanding in other areas. 

_(Oddly both this and my next case would more than prove that fact)._

“As I am sure you understand”, our visitor said, “I and my father would not last for very long in his trade if we did not keep a close eye on any potential rivals. He is concerned about this gang in particular.”

“Because he thinks that they may attack him one day?” Watson asked. 

Our guest shook his head.

“Because he is not sure as to whether they even exist!”

We both stared at him in confusion.

MDCCCLXXX

“The criminal fraternity is, despite the way the news-papers portray it in an effort to boost their circulation, a very small one”, Mr Kuznetsov said. “When a new gang appears it is commonly the case that we know everything about them in a matter of days, sometimes even hours. But this particular gang is either the most careful in all existence or something somewhere is very wrong. My father had agents spy out all the places associated with them but had found absolutely nothing. Until yesterday.”

“What happened yesterday?” I asked.

“A young pickpocket by the name of Albert Dare was found dead in a small warehouse in the docks”, our visitor said. “A note found on his body _claimed_ that it was from the Spencer John Gang and that he had paid the price for trying to double-cross them.”

“You think that the note was false?” I asked. 

Mr. Kuznetsov nodded.

“I knew the boy a little”, he said. “A rogue and a scamp maybe, but no harm in him. Besides he was a loner; he never worked with anyone else. It just feels wrong.”

“As I once said to your father, impressions are important in your line of work”, I said. “You have quite likely seen or noticed something which, at a sub-conscious level, has rung an alarm-bell. You think that this boy was killed solely to give the gang more credence. Would you go so far as to think that the gang is some sort of artifice created for an as yet unknown reason?”

“I am inclined to think that”, our visitor said, “but I cannot see who would benefit from such a subterfuge. There are more than enough such gangs out there just now; one more would make little difference.”

“That depends on the motives behind its creation”, I said. “This sounds a most intriguing case sir, and you should tell your father that I shall give it my full and immediate attention. Tell me, did the late Master Dare have any relatives?”

“An older sister who scrapes a living selling matches and matchboxes on the street”, he said. “That is another complication in that it threatens to bring in the beggars, whom we obviously do not wish to cross.”

“That is understandable”, I said. “Thank you for letting us know about this. We shall start our investigations right away.”

MDCCCLXXX

I had a bad feeling about this case, such that rather than pursue it immediately I waited until Watson had gone to his surgery before going round to see Gregson, LeStrade and Hopkins (unfortunately it was five days until Miss Hellingly's next baking-day so at last two them were unlikely to 'happen to pass by' Cramer Street, and I wished this matter sorted as a matter of urgency.

I had not for the first time under-estimated my friend, for he had clearly spotted something was amiss. When I arrived home after a largely fruitless day, he was there before me with a half-pound of barley-sugar. I thanked him and made a mental note to speak to Miss Hellingly; her maids really needed to do a better job as all the dust in our rooms was making my eyes water of late. 

“Our friends could not help?” he asked as we waited for supper to be served.

“I think that they could”, I said darkly, “and yet could not.”

He stared at me in confusion. I sighed.

“I have had a trying afternoon and am not explaining things well”, I said. “This case worries me deeply, more so when I learned that Inspector Wright was the officer in charge of it.”

“What is unusual about that?” he asked. He had met that inspector (I would not even have considered saying 'that gentlemen', for he was none) and had shared my opinion of his abject lack of abilities.

“That he was promoted recently was bad enough”, I said. “I am sure that Inspector Jones was 'paid off' as they call it so that Mr. Wright could go for his post; another month and Hopkins would have been qualified, and he could have easily beaten that idiot to a promotion.”

“The station-cat could have beaten that idiot to a promotion!” Watson snorted. “But something else is worrying you. What is it?” 

“Two things”, I said. “The death of young Master Dare occurred some distance off Inspector Wright's patch; we both know how parochial the police are over such matters. And on a related point, the only time such cases are ever investigated by another area is when the case is in some way important enough to be moved _up_ the chain of command, never across or down. Yet someone of relatively low rank has been brought in from outside the area.”

He just looked confused.

“I could understand if a superintendent or even a chief-inspector from outside had been assigned”, I said. “But I smell something off here. I do not think that any of our friends were straight with me even though I am sure that they all answered all my questions truthfully. The police-service are a clannish lot and I think that they were hiding something. Hopkins was particularly nervous but as we know, he will be up for promotion the next time a vacancy arises and Mark has warned me that that will likely be soon, so he cannot be seen to be doing anything untoward.”

“Surely none of them are involved?” he asked. 

I shook my head.

“They are all far too honest”, he said. “But I think that they all _suspect_ something is afoot and are wily enough not to start asking questions in order to confirm those suspicions. All of them are married with young families, remember, and work in the sort of profession where 'accidents' can happen to those who rock the proverbial boat.”

I could see that that worried him deeply. It worried me too.

“Is there anything that I can do to help?” he offered. 

His tone suggested that he did not expect me to accept, but luckily my next task was one in which he would be a great help.

“I need to look at all coverage of crime stories from the past two months in our old copies of the 'Times'”, I said. “And like with the Cromartyshire case, I need an unbiased observer. Will you help?”

“Gladly”, he smiled.

MDCCCLXXX

“What do you think?” I asked. “It was some hours (and maybe the odd cup of coffee or three) later. My friend was I knew a little frustrated because my terms of reference had been so vague; I had wanted a general impression but had not wanted him to start finding things because he was looking for them. 

“The old Thunderer is definitely more hostile towards the police of late”, he said. “Especially as regards this Spencer John Gang; they are openly mocking of the police's failure to bring in a single person even remotely associated with them.”

“I am glad that you noticed that”, I said. “As I said when we were looking through those articles during the Poison Pen case, it is far too easy to find things when one thinks that they should be there. That defeats the whole object of the search.”

“A pity that the police cannot just handily place the Spencer John gang right in front of a large group of armed officers and then 'find' them”, he said lightly.

I looked curiously at him. For all that, especially later in my long and illustrious career, people would come to criticize him for being a mere recorder of our adventures, his bluff straight-forwardness sometimes hit the bull's-eye.

“Yes”, I said consideringly. “But I suppose that that would be most unlikely.”

Except that I very much feared it not be unlikely at all.

MDCCCLXXX

Mr. Gregor Kuznetsov called round the next day to see how our investigations were progressing.

“Slowly for now”, I said. “But there is something that your father could do, or at least employ someone to do, which may help bring matters to a head. I am increasingly of the belief that the sooner that this matter is resolved, the better.”

“What do you need done?” he asked.

“I fully expect there to be some sort of major event as regards this Spencer John Gang in the next few days”, I said, “although I cannot say exactly when or where it will occur. The end result however will be _very_ unpleasant. There will be four dead bodies, having been dispatched in an assassination-style shooting.”

Watson looked at me in alarm.

“What do you need us to do?” our visitor asked. He of course was unperturbed by such a statement.

“I need you to have someone monitoring those bodies as soon as they hit the floor”, I said. “I then need to know exactly what happens to them and in particular who is involved with their removal. I know that is a lot to ask but we are talking about a new and very dangerous type of criminal here. One which, if it is allowed to continue unchecked, will most likely threaten your own family. I am quite certain of that.”

“Not if we scotch it first!” the young man said fiercely.

MDCCCLXXX

After our guest was gone I told my friend that I was going out for the evening and asked whether he would come with me.

“Of course”, he said. “Where are we going?”

“To see a Mr. Silas Rosenstern.”

He glared at me for my lack of information. I chuckled at him.

“I am sorry, Watson”, I said. “One part of this case will I think involve the forging of official documents. Mr. Rosenstern is a man of stern moral fibre and would not himself do anything to assist in a crime, but the other two gentlemen in the capital capable of his degree of artistry are less scrupulous. Fortunately I was able to do him a small service last year so I hope that he will feel inclined to consider my request. He has also gained some extra work for my brother Logan, who pays him to check the birth-certificates of 'boys' who apply to work for him, to ensure that they really are not boys.”

“But why would a gang need official documents?” he asked.

“They would not.”

He glared at me. I really had to stop teasing him, or the next murder that I would be investigating might well end up being my own from beyond the grave!

I would probably still manage to solve it, though.

MDCCCLXXX

Mr. Silas Rosenstern operated out of a small and rather dirty looking curios shop on the edge of the East End. It was not so much run-down as almost run-over in its decrepitude, but then this gentleman had the sort of clients who sought him out and could see past such _façades_. I explained about the case and what I was looking for, and he nodded.

“The obvious question, Mr. Holmes”, he said. “Why should my colleagues not provide documents for people who pay for their services? Each man is his own conscience.”

“These documents will be fundamental to a new and extremely dangerous type of criminal”, I said. “Either Mr. Smith or Mr. Best have been or will be asked to create four sets of documents concerning people who are claimed to be members of the fabled Spencer John Gang.”

“Why would such a request not have come to me?” Mr. Rosenstern asked with a smile.

“Because you alone among the gentlemen capable of this task always demand original documents before you will create copies”, I said. “It is a clever safeguard against any serious criminal misuse of your talents; indeed in this instance it may help to save your life. I believe that the people behind the Spencer John Gang, knowing London as well as they do and wishing to avoid any risk in achieving their evil ends, would go or may already have gone to one of your colleagues.”

“You think that my colleagues would tell me of such a request?” the fellow asked.

“In this case they might”, I said, “once you tell them who is behind this. Such people would think nothing of adding one more death to prevent anyone talking; I might almost wager that they have such a thing lined up. Another dead body would count to them as naught but a minor inconvenience towards achieving their goals. As the saying goes, one can only have eternal safety in eternal silence.”

“Do you know who is in this gang?” he asked.

“The gang does not exist”, I said. “It is a chimaera, created solely so its destruction can reflect honour and glory on a Metropolitan Police Service under constant pressure to achieve 'results'. The marginally inconvenient downside from their point of view is that some innocent people will have to die so that the fabled Spencer John Gang can be seen to have been defeated by the bravery and brilliance of the Metropolitan Police Service. To coin one of my irritating brother Randall's equally irritating phrases, one cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs, but then provided it is someone else's eggs – or in this case, lives – that end up broken, these people do not care about such things.”

Watson stared at me in astonishment.

“All a fake?” he managed at last. 

I nodded.

 _“That_ was why our friends were so unwilling to talk about it”, I said. “They suspected the truth, but as I said policemen who rock the boat either do not get on or worse, they have 'accidents'. Also, as I said they all have families to think of; some members of whom are in the service and who could be targeted. Fortunately their silences spoke louder than any words; indeed I think that they knew that.”

My friend was still stunned. I suppose that was understandable, learning that the men paid to stop crime were actually practising it. It added a whole new meaning to that phrase 'defeating the objective'.

“This is a most serious matter, sir”, Mr. Rosenstern said, I and I had the rare experience of seeing even his normally calm visage look perturbed. “I shall call on my colleagues this evening and have an answer for you by the morrow.”

“Thank you, sir.”

I bowed, placed an envelope with some coins on the table, and left with Watson hurrying after me.

MDCCCLXXX

My surmise was proven all too right by the headline in the 'Times' the following morning. The four 'members' of the Spencer John Gang – Archibald Spencer, John Tallow, John West and John Woods – had met in a warehouse to plan their next robbery but an anonymous tip-off had led police to surround the place. There had been a shoot-out and all four 'villains' had been killed. Two officers had sustained minor injuries and plans recovered from the scene showed that their next target was to have been the Middlesex home of the prime minister himself. 

“I wonder who they really were”, I mused as I read the story, munching on some wonderfully crispy bacon that Watson had very generously transferred to my plate (I had only had to look at him once, which had been good of him). “I somehow doubt that they were attending an unusually-located Sunday School in such a location. But I am sure that Mr. Kuznetsov will soon let us know and that Mr. Rosenstern will come through for us as well. He has not failed me yet.”

“You did not mention what service you performed for him”, he said, buttering some toast. “Was it a real case?”

“No, an imaginary one”, I said airily.

He glared at me.

“I can take my bacon back!” he threatened.

I instinctively wrapped both my arms around my plate and gave him such a look that he actually edged backwards slightly in his chair. 

“His daughter was dating someone whom he suspected of being undesirable”, I said, still watching him warily. “I was able to prove that he was.”

“Undesirable?” he asked, smiling for some reason.

“Already married. To two wives. Living in back to back houses.”

He choked on his coffee, but at least it stopped that smile becoming a smirk to which it had been getting dangerously near. Honestly, some people these days!

MDCCCLXXX

Both my expected telegrams arrived just after luncheon and I immediately fired off some of his own, two of which were just thank-yous (I may have been dealing with villains but politeness costs nothing). An answer came back mid-afternoon to one of his messages and I once again sent out, telling Watson that this time I expected someone to call in response to it. It was fortunate that he was not at his surgery for once and could be here to see justice being done. Although not perhaps in the way that he might have been expecting.

Shortly after dinner we heard a heavy tread from the corridor outside, not unlike that of LeStrade (however it was not a baking-day so it was exceptionally unlikely to have been him). The door opened to indeed reveal a policeman who looked less than pleased to be here. Fortunately that feeling was mutual as I was loath to be in the presence of Inspector Matthew Wright. But this had to be done.

“Be seated, sir”, I said politely. “Doctor, can you take our visitor's coat?”

Watson knew me well by now, and did not object to my using him as a cloakroom-attendant. He knew that there had to be something more to my request and hung what was obviously a very expensive coat (for a mere inspector) on the stand, then crossed to his table.

“What do you want?” our visitor demanded, looking down his nose at me.

“That sort of tone to stop, for one thing”, I said sharply. “You are about to be offered considerably more in the way of justice that your foul actions merit, sir. Be seated!”

The villain scowled but took a seat.

“Let me start by giving you four names”, I said. “Albert Bass. Edward Jones. Edward Smith. Peter Smith.”

There was a definite flicker across the villain's face although he made a valiant attempt to cover it.

“Should those names mean something to me?” he asked.

“They are the four low-grade criminals whom you and your men dispatched to the next world recently”, I said. “But not before you had replaced their identities with some of the Mr. Best's most excellent forged papers and 're-christened' them as members of the infamous Spencer John Gang.”

“I am sure that I do not know what you are talking about, sir.”

“Then allow me to provide you with four more names”, I said affably. “These doubtless will be rather more familiar to you. Superintendent Lawrence Kinsberg. Superintendent David Dumbleton. Chief-inspector Derek Golcott. Chief-inspector Andrew Ames.”

The fellow had gone deathly pale. _I had him!_

“Is your memory improving, Inspector?”, I asked dryly. “Or would you like me to mention the upstairs room at your station where the five of you met to congratulate each other this morning, having killed four relatively innocent young men?”

“They were criminals”, he said defensively. “Vermin!”

I could see that Watson was shocked by his attitude. Unfortunately I was neither shocked nor surprised. Power corrupts, and these villains had embraced evil willingly. But there was a price to be paid for that, and I had the bill ready.

“They had families”, I said firmly. “Much worse for you, Inspector, they had _friends_. The sort of friends who do not take kindly to certain members of the police setting themselves up as judge, jury and executioner. Now listen carefully, because should you fail to do so I will feel not a single pang of conscience when there are further deaths in this matter. _Starting with your own!”_

I took a deep breath.

“Today is a Friday. The five of you have until mid-day next Friday to leave the country. And never to return.”

“What if we refuse?” our visitor sneered. 

I smiled knowingly.

“Doctor”, I said casually, “please be so good as to bring me the inspector's coat.”

He did as I asked. I turned the coat around and we could all see that there was a small but notable red mark in the middle of the back of it. It was I knew red paint – _this time!_

“You did not even see the man who placed that there today”, I said softly. “Thus it will be that if any of you are still in England in a week's time, you will not see the second red mark – except that this one will be because you were shot in the back, as the likes of you should be. You were the instigator of this plot and your superiors were, I know, most pleased at its success, promising you a further promotion as soon as it could be facilitated. You will of course go and talk to them on leaving here, and each of them will find the same red mark on their own clothing. If there is a killing come mid-day next Friday it will be you, and there will be one every three days thereafter until your associates too are removed and the Metropolitan Police Service is all the better for it. You may now leave.”

The villain grabbed his coat and scurried for the door. I wondered if he might show some sense for once and take the warning, but I severely doubted it.

MDCCCLXXX

I was right to have so doubted, although even I was surprised when a week later, a prominent London police inspector was shot dead in a busy Mayfair thoroughfare. The 'Times', showing a frankly incomprehensible cynicism, noted the next day that four top officers had resigned from London's constabulary and all were leaving the country immediately for a new life abroad. But then coincidences did happen.

Sometimes.

MDCCCLXXX

_Notes:_   
_1) Battle of Maiwand. Although a strategic win for Afghanis (they outnumbered the British by more than ten to one) the heavy casualties they took meant that they failed to fully follow up on it and were defeated just over a month later at the Battle of Kandahar. In the original Sherlock Holmes stories, Watson was injured at Maiwand._

MDCCCLXXX


	9. Around The Horne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> September 1880. In one of those cases which is linked to the one before, the Metropolitan Police Service is far from happy that Mr. Sherlock Holmes has made them look like they had been a bunch of corrupt jerks just because.... well, they had been a bunch of corrupt jerks. The answer is obvious – hit back against one of the detective's policeman friends. Bad move!

Even I very occasionally made the odd mistake. Only small ones, of course.

All right, I was not that far away from making one of the worst ones of my young life, one which would tear my friend from me for three long years. No need to go on about it!

MDCCCLXXX

News had reached us that, to my immense relief, my brother Mark had been proven right in his assessment that the latest war in Afghanistan was now over after a major British victory at a place called Kandahar (Watson snarked that there would be another war along shortly, just like London cabs, but I hoped for at least a few years' grace before that happened). So I had gone round to see my brother to thank him, only for Tiny to open the door to me.

Wearing a sea-man's cap. I looked at it in confusion for a moment before my brilliant brain, most cruelly and with precisely zero warning, told me just why. Brothers!

“You went with Mark on that sea-journey, did you not, Tiny?” I asked.

And there was the Sad Face! Lord, what had happened?

“I'd never been to sea before, sir”, he said dolefully. “I got all nervous and Mr. Mark, he said he's turn back, but I knew he wanted to go so I said I just needed something to take my mind off it. And he said he didn't have the Hat but...... you know.”

Unfortunately and much as I wished to wipe my mind of the mental images it insisted on inflicting on me, I did. The Panama Hat (capitals necessary) was what Mark wore when he let Tiny do whatever he wanted, and on a boat.... oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear!

“Is there anything of my brother left, Tiny?” I asked.

He nodded, still somehow looking like a scolded puppy despite his huge bulk.

“He's asleep, sir”, he said. “He had to take the whole week off; he couldn't face the stairs.”

“So much for his boating-trips, then”, I smiled.

“He asked if I might want to go again the week after next, sir”, Tiny said. “If he can stand up by then.”

I sighed. Honestly, some relatives!

MDCCCLXXX

Between the two of us, I would have said that Watson was by some distance the more cynical. But when it came to those I dealt with in my cases and ensuring that people getting what they deserved, I knew that many of those who were brought to justice would be far from happy with the results of my efforts. Fortunately I had the friendship of Mr. Kuznetsov whose displeasure irrevocably earned the recipient a brief glimpse of the Thames river-bed (one-size concrete footwear provided whether one asked or not). However that left a large number of friends and acquaintances who might still be targeted by those left sore at having their foibles exposed.

(I had made the mistake of saying as much to my brother Logan at one time and the glowering Ajax had very unfairly remarked how much he liked said brother's foibles, which had been doubly irritating as he was both a lot bigger than me and still looked at me as if he was considering just where to bury my body. And worst of all, would start on poor Logan even before I was out of hearing-distance!)

Sadly once again, those in authority did not disappoint my low expectations. I really would have liked to have been proven wrong on this for once but I was not – and it was an innocent friend of mine who found himself in the line of fire as a result.

MDCCCLXXX

One of the most horrible of modern phrases at the time was, in my opinion, 'collateral damage'. I had seen an example of it when I had helped rid the country of the unpleasant Mr. Sebastian Moran, of whom nothing had been heard for the past six months after he had been sent off to establish communications with one of the more remote tribes in the south of British Guyana ('remote and hopefully hungry', Watson had snarked; he really was getting worse regardless of whether I myself had thought anything even remotely similar). The collateral damage in this case was unavoidable but annoying; Mr. Moran had been head of my unpleasant brother Randall's government department so the latter had obtained a promotion as a result. But I had managed to delay his trip to Mother in order to tell her (boast) about it until, by some unfortunate alignment of the heavens, she had just finished her Restoration story ('Men of Harlech') about the well-endowed Welsh lord and the sixty muscular bow-men. Hah!

My one fear arising from the Spencer John case was that our friend Hopkins might well become another example of this 'collateral damage' as he applied to become an inspector. With one man at that level and four even higher up gone (one way or another) there would be quite a few vacancies – and more ominously, a lot of top policemen very angry with Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I suppose on reflection that it was stupid of me to think that having demonstrated precisely zero humanity this far, the Metropolitan Police Service would not take the opportunity to dig themselves into an even deeper hole. 

Which they duly did. Sigh.

MDCCCLXXX

It was only two days after Inspector Wright's final mistake in this world when Watson read me something from the 'Times'. 

“The Thunderer can smell a rat over one dead inspector and four more senior officers suddenly heading abroad at the same time”, he said. “Especially as all four left in what it describes as 'something of a hurry'. It believes that these events are linked to the Service appointing one Superintendent Matthew Horne as a new Public Affairs Officer.”

“I suppose that that sounds better than a Cover Up All Our Blunders Like When We Murder Innocent People To Make Ourselves Look Good Officer”, I said, not at all cattily. “More time spent avoiding those blunders would have been better, but I suppose that that was too much to hope for.”

My friend smiled and read on. Neither of us knew it, but we not that far away from our first encounter with the new Public Affairs Officer.

MDCCCLXXX

“I have a problem, sir.”

I sighed heavily. Hopkins had come round and one look at his face told me that as per usual, the worst had happened. It really would have been nice to have been proven wrong for once, but wisely I had used the intervening few days following a certain recent appointment to initiate certain actions 'just in case' something like this happened (see also the sun rising in the east or our two other policeman friends not coming round to Cramer Street on Miss Hellingly's next baking-day).

“What are they trying?” I asked wearily.

“You know that I had to put in a preliminary application for promotion last month, sir?” our visitor said.

This was I knew standard practice in constabularies up and down the country. Not all men wished to move to the higher levels; many were content (and often wise) to have 'found their level', so to speak. There were few things worse that someone promoted to a post they were incapable of holding¹, and then worse, the organization that had promoted them would not remedy matters 'because they would lose face in so doing'. Something obviously _far_ more important than having the right man in the right job.

“Yes”, I said. “Is there a problem?”

“Last week my mother up in Roxburghshire was taken worse, sir.”

I had often wondered if Hopkins would have preferred to have returned to his native Border county, and a couple of months back he had confirmed that that was something he had been looking into, especially as his mother had indeed not been well of late.

“I applied for a vacancy that came up up there as well”, the sergeant explained, “but they told me that I had to complete my application down here first because the Met would not release me otherwise. And it is taking time, they say.”

Devious, I thought. Something that would most certainly not have taken more than a few minutes rubber-stamping the application for any policeman not linked to a certain Mr. Sherlock Holmes who had crossed this fellow's 'superiors' so recently. 

“I might hazard that the processing of that application may somehow last so long that you will miss out on the Roxburghshire position?” I said.

He nodded glumly and scratched his ginger thatch. Not for the last time in my life, I decided that I needed to be clearer when laying down ground-rules to people. Specifically certain high-ranking policemen. Who would very soon be regretting their foul actions, because this time it was going to hurt many of them personally.

“Luckily I can do something to help you”, I said. “I had an idea that something like this might occur given the way that the Service behaved over the Spencer John Gang, so I set some things in train. Your superiors will not enjoy tomorrow's newspapers at all – and that will only be the start of their troubles.”

MDCCCLXXX

The headlines the following day did not make pleasant reading for the new Public Affairs Officer of the Metropolitan Police Service. Some horrible person had leaked the truth about the Spencer John Gang to the 'Times', and they had naturally gone to Superintendent Horne for some words on the subject of murderous senior policemen. Yet for some reason the officer responsible for talking to the public had been 'unavailable for comment'. Even when some lucky journalist had ‘just happened’ across him on a Surrey golf course, having been tipped off that he was hid.... playing a round there.

Worse, however, was a statement from Scotland Yard that the whole story had been made up by the press in order to try to discredit the brave boys in blue, and that the four senior officers who had gone – _not_ fled – abroad might return at any time. For their own sakes I hoped not; they were all being monitored and would not have made it off the ferry. 

What was I saying? Of course I hoped that they would try to return!

I was not surprised either when the excrescence himself called at Cramer Street. Superintendent Matthew Horne lived down to his picture in the paper and then some; I was frankly amazed that he had been able to find the door-handle with his nose so elevated. He was about forty-five years old and not dissimilar to Gregson in appearance, but clearly with a much greater sense of his own consequence and the obvious inferiority of those around (beneath) him. Which made him wrong on two counts straight away.

 _”You_ are the source of these stories”, he sneered. “You will stop.”

“Why?” I asked.

That simple question seemed to flummox him. I supposed that like a certain lounge-lizard of a brother than I could mention, he was so used to his minions jumping to his every command that actually being asked a question was a novel experience for him. I wondered not for the last time if there was a factory somewhere churning out excuses for humanity, and why so many of them seemed to enter my life. If there was, it was high time that said factory was blown to kingdom come!

“Because I have told you to!” he snapped.

It was downright annoying of Watson, out of sight behind the fellow just then, to hold up a card with 'Randall Mark Two' written on it. Especially because he was right and worse, he knew damn well that he was right. That just made it even more annoying!

“I would mind your tone if I were you, superintendent”, I said, staring at my friend reprovingly as he looked to be venturing far too near a smirk for my liking. “The Metropolitan Police Service is not in my good books of late, and I have more than enough semantics and sophistry in my daily life as it is without adding you to the mix.”

“Sir, I protest!”

“If I had a face like yours, I would too”, I retorted, enjoying the way in which he spluttered at that. “The last senior policeman to sit in that chair was one Inspector Matthew Wright and he was offered a very fair deal, far too fair in the circumstances. He chose not to accept it. I look forward to seeing how far you will go in making the same mistake.”

He blinked at my words, clearly trying to right his suddenly topsy-turvy world view in which someone so obviously inferior dared to speak to the likes of him in such a manner.

“Are you threatening _me_ , sir?” he asked disdainfully.

“I am merely setting out a list of what will happen over the next few days”, I said, “despite any efforts that you and your utterly disgraceful Service may make to stop them. Tomorrow for example the 'Times' will be running a story about how you physically abused cadets at Hendon College.”

“The public will not care”, he said firmly. “Mere boys!”

“Several of whom come from prestigious families who will be less than happy with your foul actions”, I said. “Especially when they receive couriered copies of the medical evidence. I shall concede that the public may well take more interest in the next day's story, concerning the physical abuse that you inflicted on your first wife before she wisely divorced you. The ‘Times’ has all her medical records, by the way.”

I could see that that made him uncomfortable, and pressed on. 

“Day Three will feature the fraudulent expenses claims that you made during your trip to France last year”, I said. “I am sure that even _you_ will be hard put to explain just how a whole evening in a brothel can be classified as 'entertaining a client' – especially as the 'client' happened to be a fellow senior officer who is married to a rather eminent lady – well, he is married for now; I do not know how she will react when she reads that. The proof will be sent to her by recorded delivery on the day in question, so I dare say that we – and he, for that matter – will soon know.”

He had gone satisfyingly pale. Good, because there was more to come.

“Day Four will be particularly interesting”, I said, “as it will coincide with a file being handed to your current wife who as we both know is the sister of one of the few officers above you in what is called the 'pecking order'. Said file will concern a lady of rather questionable virtue in Belgravia – _and a baby!_

“You cannot do this!” he exclaimed. “This is just wrong!”

I glared at him angrily. Like so many in his position he believed that rules were for other people. He was wrong in that as everything else.

“You, sir, are a villain!” I said firmly. “It is like the old saying; the enemy at the gate is a thousand times better than the one already inside, working to destroy a Nation from within. Your Service murdered four innocent men solely because some senior officers wanted to look good and avoid deserved criticism fro the newspapers, and may I say that they made a suitable choice in their attempt to cover up future wrongdoings in selecting a wrongdoer like yourself. Now we come to the price for my forbearance.”

I took a deep breath. Even the air tasted foul with this villain's presence in the room; I was thankful that Watson had moved across to open the window. Although his gesture about tipping our visitor out of it….. 

“Those four stories will appear whatever you do”, I said, fighting down a strong temptation to test Sir Isaac Newton’s theories (besides, I was sure that Randall would be round sooner or later). “Kindly understand that. However, the 'Times' _may_ receive a dossier for publication on the fifth day as well. It will make what has gone before seem as nothing, for it will cover the actions of some _twenty-eight_ officers of inspector rank and above. If the Metropolitan Police Service believes that being five officers short is a problem, it might be about to find out what being thirty-three short feels like! Note also that I have made arrangements that should there be any attempt on me or anyone even remotely associated with me, the documents _will_ reach newspapers in not just London but every major city in this land. Immediately!”

He scowled at me but stayed silent.

“You will resign your post”, I said, “and the Service will not choose to appoint a replacement. That it actually thought it needed someone to cover up their actions was shameful in itself; that they used public money to so do made it still worse. Also, Sergeant Hopkins will apply for and obtain the inspector's post in Roxburghshire. There will be no difficulties about his pay or his records, for if there are I will _not_ be best pleased. He did not deserve to be dragged into this sorry mess, and if you had any understanding of the concept of shame you would know why. You have four days, sir. Remember that other unwise policeman with your Christian name, and use them wisely!

He managed a final scowl, then heaved himself out of his chair and was gone. Watson opened the other window to let some more air in, and I did not blame him.

MDCCCLXXX

Thankfully for once the Metropolitan Police Service got the hint – mostly. Hopkins secured his promotion and came round to thank me before heading off to his native Roxburghshire; I would as things turned out see him up there one day not far into the future. Superintendent Horne resigned as the Public Affairs Officer and the post was not renewed for anyone else. 

Yes, I had to add that 'mostly'. As so often the Service tried to be clever by creating a 'new' role of 'Public Liaison Officer', and advertised it among its ranks only to find, surprise surprise, that there was only one applicant, the recently separated Superintendent Matthew Horne. However the decision was later reversed after some rather unsavoury revelations about him in the 'Times'. I mean, with one of the Deputy Commissioners' daughters?

I was shocked, I tell you. Shocked!

MDCCCLXXX

_Notes:_   
_1) Later made famous as The Peter Principle, from a 1969 book based on the research by Canadian writer Laurence Peter. The book was intended to be satire but instead ended up as reality!_

MDCCCLXXX


	10. Burning Injustice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 1880. An utterly horrible case where once again Holmes has to apply justice rather than the law. Can the great detective find what happened to one of the most hated men in the rural Forest of Dean? And should he even try?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Non-graphic reference to child abuse.  
> Note: Wisbech is pronounced 'wiz-beech'.

Although I had little interest in history except in when it directly impinged on one of my investigations (or of course in encouraging Watson to tale about it as that made him happy), I was aware that in England more than in most places, it oftentimes had a bearing on current events. Sometimes a very painful bearing, as this case in particular would bear out.

I had called round to my sister Moira for some information that I needed for a minor investigation that I was undertaking, and she mentioned that there had been trouble at home.

“Hilton again?” I guessed. 

My elder brother was as I have said married to poor Rachael, who must have done something quite awful in a previous life to have merited such a fate and ye Gods, Watson was such a terrible influence on me! However, Hilton was more often out and about, especially round to Guilford Street to try to cadge free meals while avoiding Mother's stories.

“You are far too cynical for someone you are”, Moira said crisply.

I just looked at her.

“All right, it was Hilton”, she conceded. “He and Randall were sounding off about this new Clarkson Memorial to a Wisbech fellow¹ who campaigned against the slave-trade; one of Randall's politicos thought that the money raised would have been better spent on something that could have been named after him.”

I winced. Mother had Strong Views (capitals obligatory) against the slave-trade, and against anyone who was even anywhere near in favour of it. 

“And they sounded off in the house?” I asked. “What were they thinking?”

“That she was out for the day”, she said. “They forgot that after all those years of them both talking down to the servants every chance they got, one or more of them was bound to pass it on to her. She was Displeased.”

“Only a Level Four”, I said. “Hospital or no hospital?”

“Hospital”, she grinned. “And considering where she hit them both, that will have put a crimp in their favourite activities for more than a little while!”

I winced at that.

MDCCCLXXX

One of the many criticisms levelled at my friend over the years was he seemingly never published cases where I had failed. There were however many cases that were 'failures' in the sense that my client was not satisfied with the outcome yet justice had still been served (the recent Hammerford Inheritance case, for example), and this was another such. It was also one of the most horrible cases that we had ever had to deal with; like the Dingwall, North Elmham and Marlow cases I felt nauseous when I made the few notes about it for my personal files. I advise the reader to not go beyond this point if they have eaten a heavy meal recently, lest it decide to put in an unannounced reappearance.

It had all seemed so normal when it started on a bright but cold day in early autumn. There was not much in the news; a rates rebellion over in Ireland, the ongoing severe blizzard in the United States and the now thankfully concluding mess that was the (latest) Afghan War. I had thought to have another quiet day in Cramer Street but instead Watson and I were to travel across England and, it seemed, almost back in time.

There was a knock at the door, I called for them to enter and Susan came in with a card. I took it, thanked her and read the name.

“'Mr. Wilfred Hoxhaugh, Esquire, of Coleford in the County of Gloucestershire'.”

“I am surprised that you cannot deduce everything about the fellow from that”, Watson snarked.

“You mean apart from the fact he is wealthy, about sixty years of age, insufferably proud, dyes his hair, walks with a limp and has an unfortunate preference for the colour burgundy?” I shot back.

He stared at me in astonishment as I bade Susan show the caller up.

“You cannot know that from just the card!” he protested.

Actually I had seen the fellow alight from his very expensive carriage when I had gone to open the window a few minutes earlier, but my friend did not need to know that. Besides, he was so glorious when he pouted his annoyance!

MDCCCLXXX

The pout grew even winder when a portly gentleman wearing a virulent plum-coloured suit and an even more unfortunate burgundy and white striped shirt limped into the room, looked disdainfully at us both then sat down without even being asked. I do not know what appearance he had been striving for when he had got dressed that morning but I was fairly sure that 'gaudy hot-air balloon' had not been it. Or at least I hoped as much!

“I read in the paper that you can find things”, he said curtly. “My boy Wilson has gone missing.”

“Have you reported the matter to the local constabulary?” I asked, wincing as the fire wafted his cologne in my direction. He had applied enough to risk catching fire, although I was already beginning to think that that might not have been a bad thing.....

Watson's influence on me was getting worse, damnation!

“I do not trust the local copper, Rose”, he said. “I want you to find him.”

Callers far less rude than this excrescence had been very firmly shown the door in the past, and I would have done precisely that had I not detected a subtle change in Watson. He had narrowed his eyes at our unpleasant visitor as if he recognized him from somewhere. 

This needed looking into.

“I am currently awaiting news from a government case that I have been working on”, I told our guest. “I expect it some time today, no later. If it comes soon enough the doctor and I will come down to Gloucestershire at once, otherwise we will be there tomorrow. Your card says that you live in a village called Coleford?”

“Three miles east of the dump, near Speech House Road Station”, he said. “Only big house in the area, of course. Everyone knows it.”

“We shall be there today or tomorrow, sir”, I said with a false smile. “You have my word on that.”

He grunted, looked disapprovingly at Watson, stood and left without so much as a good-bye. I waited until he was gone then looked pointedly at my friend.

“There was something about that fellow”, I said, “apart from his long list of shortcomings as a possible member of the human race. What was it?”

He looked troubled.

“That article in the 'Times' yesterday”, he said. “The one about the West Gloucestershire orphanage.”

I thought to the Baker Street Orphanage which I funded, and which I had not yet got round to telling Watson about. Now was not the time but I would have to do it soon. Mark and Logan were, I supposed, right about my keeping unnecessary secrets from my friend, although I would of course not have told either of them that as they would have then become even more insufferably smug. I hated smug people.

“What about it?” I asked.

“A Mr. Wilson Hoxhaugh was one of the trustees there”, he said. “I remember the unusual name; I nearly misread it as that of one of my patients, Mr. Hoxham; he comes from that part of the world as well. You know how newspapers are these days; there was a great deal of suggestion and innuendo but it boiled down to the fact that the place was closed down days before an inspection that was expected to show all sorts of bad practices.”

And now one of the men behind those 'bad practices' had himself disappeared. I somehow doubted that that had been a coincidence.

MDCCCLXXX

We allowed our client a three hour start before we followed him to Paddington Station and a train west. 

“I wonder at the name of this place”, I said, looking at our ticket. Speech House Road Station was on a small system called the Severn & Wye Railway, but the ever-efficient Great Western had provided through tickets with instructions to change at Gloucester and Lydney.

“The Forest of Dean is one of those old areas which has some laws all of its own, like the New Forest in Hampshire”, my friend said. “I recall reading somewhere that the Speech House was a sort of local parliament. A place of hot air from someone who looked like a hot-air balloon!”

“One only hopes that the locals are less unfriendly than Mr. Hoxhaugh”, I said, shaking my head at his impudence. “Especially considering what a low bar that is!”

MDCCCLXXX

Fortunately the Speech House turned out to have been converted into a local inn, which relieved us both as it meant that we would not have to be with the unpleasant Mr. Hoxhaugh any more than necessary. Although when we were checking in I noted the receptionist starting at my name. I would have commented on it but she seemed to have something wrong with her face from the way in which she was looking at me, so I let it pass. 

Watson had acquired a cough somewhere along our journey. It must have been the dust in our railway-carriage.

Mr. Hoxhaugh had been right when he had said his house was near the station as it was actually within sight of the hotel. But we were lucky; he had gone off to be rude to someone else so we left a note saying that we had arrived, then returned to our hotel. Swiftly.

MDCCCLXXX

The following day we travelled into Coleford where I decided to seek out the local policeman and find out just why Mr. Hoxhaugh had not trusted him over looking for his son. The Forest was a strange area to describe; it was a mining as well as a forestry area and had a sort of pastoral, almost rough beauty, but it felt a very clannish part of the world, and although I did not feel unwelcome I did feel as if we were being watched. Constantly.

I had the same feeling about Constable Edwin Rose at the police station in Coleford. I thought (but wisely did not say) that he looked like one of the foresters who someone had put in a police uniform but had stopped there. He too was not unfriendly but I had the distinct impression that he was on his guard. At least like everyone else he was more than ready to let us know what he thought of our client.

“I doubt you'd find a man in the Forest with a good word to say about him!” he said scornfully. “He owns a large part of the area including the mines; he always puts money first and people second.”

“He seemed to think that you might not put out your best endeavours to find his son who has gone missing”, I said mildly. “I am sure he is wrong on that, of course. What can you tell me about Mr. Wilson Hoxhaugh?”

It was infinitesimal but I caught it; the slightest shift in his eyes. He knew something, or at least thought that he knew something. Curious. 

“An apple that didn't fall far from the tree”, he said. “An only son and he acted like it, always swanning about the place. Talk is that he took a wedge of his dear old dad's money and high-tailed it to the United States; the old man's just making a fuss to cover it all up.”

I noted that 'acted' rather than an 'acts'. For some reason the constable viewed Mr. Wilson Hoxhaugh in the past tense, and I had a strong suspicion that it was not because that fellow was out of the country.

I suddenly remembered something that Watson had told me on the way down about the industries in this part of England, and my brilliant brain most disobligingly sprinted to the conclusion of just what had happened to Mr. Wilson Hoxhaugh. And as with my oversharing brothers, it provided a horribly graphic demonstration of what might have happened here. I was sure that I kept a straight countenance yet my friend still looked sharply at me. He really was knowing me too well of late.

“There was an item in the paper about the orphanage in Gloucester”, I said, suppressing a shudder. “I believe that the Hoxhaughs were involved there?”

“There's little west of the Severn they're not involved in”, the constable snorted. “That was Mr. Wilson's first project; of course he messed it up.”

I thought for a moment, then thanked the constable for his time and left.

MDCCCLXXX

“There is something dark in this case, is there not?”

Watson looked at me, clearly troubled. He was lucky that he did not know what I knew, but I would soon have to share it with him.

“I was thinking”, I said carefully. “This huge forest. All those acres in which to hide a body.”

His eyes widened.

“Mr. Wilson Hoxhaugh?” he asked. 

I nodded.

“I also think that I know how it was done”, I said. “This will take some handling. We need to go over to Monmouth.”

“Why?” he asked, puzzled. “That is miles away.”

“Because that is over the border into Monmouthshire”, I said, “and I believe that any telegram sent from the Forest would be read.”

“We are not in any danger?” he asked, clearly worried now.

“I do not think so”, I said. “But if we are to achieve a resolution of this case, at least as far as it can be resolved, then we will need to tread carefully. This is one of the cases where the difference between justice and the law will be a wide one indeed.”

MDCCCLXXX

We spent the next week in the area, clearly being closely observed by several of the locals. I indulged Watson's passion for history and we visited the famous abbey ruins at Tintern as well as several of the Marcher castles. I made what inquiries needed to be made at a safe distance in London and had the results sent to me by secure courier; I did not wish to alarm certain people round here.

On our last day we went into Coleford immediately after breakfast. I was ninety-nine per cent sure that Mr. Wilfred Hoxhaugh would be arriving to the hotel as soon as he got the telegram that he was set to receive, which could not be until after the post-office opened at nine (perhaps later today as the postmistress might give herself some time to spread the news around the place and I blamed Watson for making me think such a thing). Partly to avoid the fellow we went to the police-station, where Constable Rose was surprised to see us.

“Mrs. Davies from the post-office has just called”, he said, confirming my suspicions. “Mr. Hoxhaugh received a telegram from his son in America, saying he’s starting a new life out there.”

He looked dubiously at me. As well he might.

“A mile south of the Speech House”, I said slowly, “and within sight of Mr. Wilfred Hoxhaugh's palatial abode, there are a number of charcoal stacks.”

He should have looked confused at my words – Watson certainly did – but as I had known he would, he flushed bright red.

“Sir......”

“I know all”, I said. “You planned this well, all of you, but you failed to account for a sudden change in the wind. A charcoal stack is an excellent place to dispose of a human body especially when one considers the chemicals inside said body, but you left it too soon and a change of wind meant that it did not fully burn.”

Watson had finally understood, and his face was ashen. The constable looked equally horrified!

“You mean....”

I shook my head.

“I went there last night and re-started it”, I said. “This time it burned properly. It is done.”

He hung his head. 

“Thank you, sir”, he said quietly.

“I cannot condone murder”, I said, “yet I have always sought to apply justice rather than the law. Even if that involves the occasional untruth – here or from far away.”

I could see the light come on in his eyes.

“The telegram! _You?”_

I nodded.

“I wired a friend of a friend in the United States and he had the message sent from a telegraph office near the docks in New York”, I said. “Goodbye, constable. We have been too long in your Forest.”

I bowed and left, Watson scurrying after me.

MDCCCLXXX

Mr. Hoxhaugh was not at all impressed at my having found nothing, and tartly informed me that he would not be paying any bill. He would, or Moira would make sure that he regretted it. We were relieved to leave him behind and headed for the railway-station where we were just in time for the next train.

“So that was why you slipped out last night”, Watson said once we were headed down to Lydney². 

I nodded.

“They burned Mr. Wilson Hoxhaugh alive?” he asked. _“Why?”_

“First, the 'they'”, I said. “In this case we are talking a large number of men of the Forest, probably some women as well. They must have waylaid him on his way back from Gloucester and taken him to his death. Burning alive. A horrible way to go, and yet....”

He looked at me, still confused.

“Yet arguably deserved”, I said.

“What could he have done to deserve so horrible an end as that?” he asked, clearly shocked at my words.

“As well as setting up that fake telegram, I wired Mark for a copy of the report into that orphanage”, I said. “Mr. Wilson Hoxhaugh had not just been stealing funds from the place. He had been abusing the young boys and girls therein.”

He stared at me in horror.

“The report was only a preliminary one”, I said, “and the villain's father managed to get the full one stopped by having the place closed down. However someone connected with the Forest must have leaked the truth, and the men and women whose children could themselves have been victims, indeed may have been..... they hated the Hoxhaughs already and this was the final straw. The traditional practices that the father so scorned as not making him enough money have made an end of both his son and his lineage, and likely an end of him too if he keeps on the way he is.”

He could not find any words with which to respond. Instead he came and sat next to me and we leaned into each other, seeking comfort as we left the dark woods behind us.

MDCCCLXXX

Mr. Wilfred Hoxhaugh did not live long enough to test the local people's already frayed tempers, dying the following year. His estate passed to a distant cousin who moved into his house but much preferred the old ways of doing things, and things returned to normal in the quiet forest. Except for the remains of one charcoal stack a mile south of the nearest road beside which there were some burnt coins and a charred ring that had once been gold. All that remained of a man who had thought that he was above justice, and had been sent to burn in the fires of Hell in the knowledge that no, he had not been.

MDCCCLXXX

_Notes:_   
_1) Thomas Clarkson (1760-1846). A fierce campaigner who helped push through first the abolition of the slave trade in the British Empire (1807) and then the abolition of slavery itself (1833)._   
_2) This part of the Severn & Wye Railway is now mostly the preserved Dean Forest Railway, running from Lydney and the main rail network up to Parkend. There are plans to extend it to Speech House Road Station where Sherlock and John alighted._

MDCCCLXXX


	11. A Study In Scarlet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> December 1880. The Victorians were fascinated by the preternatural. This case featured a man whose ghostly visions proved fatal, and ended with someone fatally passing the salt and causing a relative of theirs to meet a bad (but deserved) end.

Upon reading some of the letters that Watson received from his loyal (and sometimes borderline insane) readers, I often had the distinct impression that they thought I was off solving matters of national import every other day, and that I was frankly being a mean meanie from Meanie Town in not allowing my friend to share all these cases with them. While it is true that there are still some such that cannot be made public without the most unpleasant political consequences – national _and_ international – the vast majority of my friend's work was mundane. However, as I have said before I did not take cases on the importance of those requesting my help (much as many of 'the great and the good' wished that I did) and even many of these 'lesser' cases can still not be made public because innocent men and women would be harmed by their release. That was one reason I made my own notes; so that once these potential victims had passed, a later generation might be able to experience my supreme modesty and utter brilliance.

I said as much to Watson one time. The maids really needed to to a better job with our rooms, as he said all that dust was making him cough.

Ever since the 'Strand' magazine had agreed to serialize our “Gloria Scott” adventure, Watson had been working hard to eke out a final draft of the thing, as well as somehow finding the time to organize my arguably less than ordered notes from other cases. I may or may not have applied a little subtle pressure to prevent the magazine from pestering my friend for a final script, but I was still relieved (as was he) when come the end of November he had the story done, and my having checked it through he dispatched it to the magazine very clearly glad to see the back of it.

MDCCCLXXX

As I have mentioned before, I received many free tickets to all sorts of things some of which I declined on the grounds of having another engagement elsewhere (if anyone asked I would always mention my mother's stories which, invariably, would end the conversation forthwith mainly because my interlocutor was either fleeing for the hills or had fainted!). Of those that remained, some I went to because I could take Watson and he might then feature in those society-pages that he hardly ever even glanced at except when he had a spare moment and the newspaper may perchance have happened to have fallen open at that particular page (as it seemed wont to do most days, oddly enough!). His appearance at such events thus enabled some of his snootier clients to know that yes, Doctor John Hamish Watson was worthy enough to save _their_ lives.

A smaller group of visits was those entertainments I went to because I thought that Watson and/or I might actually enjoy rather than just tolerate them, i.e. the ones where we would not need our ear-plugs. One such an amusing stage-performance by the actor Mr. Jonathan Ball who made thinly-veiled attacks on prominent political and social figures of the day. I particularly liked his 'Mr. Madstone', a pompous and wordy politician who boldly told the public that if elected, he would not make the same mistakes that the previous generation had made – _he and his party would make brand-new and quite different mistakes!_

I mention this because we went to see this act on a Wednesday evening, and the following day Great Britain found itself in a quite unnecessary war against the two Boer Republics, the Orange Free State and the South African Republic (the latter more commonly called The Transvaal). Our Liberal prime minister, having criticized his predecessor for the totally unnecessary Anglo-Zulu War, was starting his own in virtually the self-same part of the world.

Yes, this did also make me worry that Watson might put himself forward to serve our Nation. Our prime minister was an idiot!

MDCCCLXXX

It was the following day and the end of a cold week. Watson had returned from his rounds looking even more disgruntled than usual (some achievements given what he said about some of his patients; I really hoped that he did not start providing me with any unexpected murders as I would never have been able to find the Anglo-Scots medical personage responsible). He had of late generally worked solely at the actual surgery but this coldest of days he had had to cover for a fellow doctor whose patients had been spread the length and breadth of our fog-girt city. That sort of thing always irked him even more, with twenty refrains of _'you_ are not Doctor Windlesham!' as if he might not have been aware of that fact! Plus the extra traffic engendered by the approaching festive season had doubtless slowed him down, which given his normal enjoyment of the approaching holiday was a rare thing. 

I had moved the screen around so I could make the best use of the weak light from the grey day outside while reading, so he must not have seen me as he slouched into the room. The fact that he went straight for and devoured the coffee that I had made and had briefly left unguarded while I checked my experiment was, perhaps, also a bit of a clue. Either that or he had acquired a death-wish somewhere in his travels!

“That was actually mine”, I said pointedly.

He jumped and turned bright red. He really should have known better than to touch my beans. I would have said something but he really looked in a dreadful state, so I very generously decided not to. Because.

“I am so sorry”, he said, realizing to his belated horror that he had come between me and caffeine and might as a result soon need to be practising his medical skills upon himself. “I did not....”

“You clearly needed it more than me”, I said with a reassuring smile. “I shall make myself another one and you should get yourself out of those wet clothes. Then I can tell you about a new case that I have been offered.”

He nodded in excitement, and hurried to his room, although I also caught his astonishment that I had not been more cross about his taking my beloved coffee. I made sure to make enough for two this time, and had poured the first when he returned in his pyjamas and his favourite dressing-gown. That did not surprise me; not only was the day overcast but there was that horrible thin fog outside that somehow made one feel even wetter than if it had just been raining. 

He hesitated before taking the first coffee

“That one is yours”, I smiled, pouring out my own (looking back, I did not know why I had not done that first). “Sit down, old friend.”

He frowned at the 'old' – he had barely turned twenty-seven and was little more than two and a half years older than me – but sat down to wait for my news. I downed my coffee in one draught and chose to pass over his shocked expression, then took a barley-sugar out of the bowl on the table by my chair and sucked on it happily.

“A Mr. Zebediah Wriothesley from Essex called on me today”, I said, “and would like me to investigate possible preternatural happenings in his home.”

_(I should state here that the name Wriothesley was then pronounced 'Riseley', but today is more usually pronounced 'Rotsley'. My new client was only a very distant cousin to the Mr. Riseley of our recent political case)._

“You investigate the paranormal?” my friend asked. 

I supposed that he had every right to have been surprised. There had of course been such an element to our recent Scottish case but it had been largely incidental to the attempted murder of poor Ceawlin Musgrave.

“I suspect that the cause is of this world rather than the next in origin”, I said, “otherwise I would not be at all interested. But the case has several intriguing aspects to it and I think that as a budding author it might appeal to your good self.”

He blushed at my praise. 

“Tell me about it”, he said.

I reached for another barley-sugar and began, grateful for the warmth of the fire as it seeped into my bones. There was a lot to be said for a warm fire, good coffee, solid walls and heavy curtains while outside London's iron-cold streets froze. And of course a good friend, even if he did take _my_ coffee.

“Mr. Wriothesley owns a large property in Essex close by the River Thames”, I said. “It is built in the site of an old monastery called Beaumont which was a sub-house to the great abbey at Waltham, the last of such to fall under Henry the Eighth's axe in the year fifteen hundred and forty. The abbey like so many others was sold and eventually a private house was built on the site using many of the stones from the old building. Everything was swept away except a cloister and a small chapel onto which the new building was added. The chapel continued in use for the house's new owners, and would play a part in the events that have transpired there of late.”

“Wait a minute!” he exclaimed. “Wriothesley. Was not he connected with William Shakespeare in some way?”

I smiled at his enthusiasm. History was as I said of little interest to me but the possible importance of it in this case had been another factor why I had taken it, as I had known that my friend would enjoy that.

“The family like many at the time split over religion”, I explained. “Mr. Zebediah's ancestors came from a Protestant branch and were cousins to Henry, Earl of Southampton¹ to whom certain of our greatest writer's sonnets were dedicated. That was probably just as well as things turned out; that nobleman's involvement in the Essex Plot nearly brought about his demise, although Great Elizabeth eventually let him off. Mr. Zebediah's own ancestor, having foreseen the disaster, was wise enough to present the Queen with a beautiful new dress shortly before the plot was uncovered. He knew his mark; his side of the family escaped unscathed.”

“So why does the descendant of an Elizabethan nobleman need the services of London's greatest consulting-detective?” he asked lightly.

I looked at him in amusement as he blushed over his choice of words. Generously I refrained from adding to my discomfort and continued with my story, although I may have allowed myself a very slight smile. Only a bad person would have smirked. 

“About three weeks ago Mr. Wriothesley, who lives alone, was about to turn in for the night when he heard the sound of a bell outside. Upon attaining the window he observed a figure in red moving from the house to the chapel into which it disappeared. He immediately came down and with his butler made his way to the chapel, only to find it still locked and apparently undisturbed.”

A figure in red?” he asked dubiously.

“Beaumont Priory was home to the Scarlet Friars, an order much favoured by the Pope”, I explained. “They were technically vassals of the French king, the English Crown having gifted the estate to King Louis the Ninth some three centuries prior. That saved them in the short term but when Valois and Hapsburg fell out in 1540, King Henry The Eighth seized the opportunity to have the place closed down. Unlike most abbeys they did not go without a fight and the last abbot, a Frenchman, was dragged away shouting that his order would one day reclaim what had been taken from them.”

“I did not think that you cared for history”, he said.

“I generally do not”, I said. “But this is after all England, and in more than one past case what has happened in the past, sometimes even the long past, can have a major effect on both the present and the future. I think that this may be one of those cases, especially as my client sent me all this information. He must have thought it relevant.”

“Is this Mr. Wriothesley rich?” he asked. 

I nodded.

“The Beaumont estate is a valuable one”, I said, “and since he is both unmarried and nearly forty-five years of age Mr. Wriothesley has been looking to its succession. He has a brother Zechariah but the two most definitely do not get on so Mr. Zebediah has adopted as his heir a distant cousin, one Master Wilton Farnsworth. The boy is sixteen years old so cannot inherit as of right for another five years and our client is concerned that someone – either his brother or agents acting for him – is trying to scare him into an early grave so that they could strip the estate bare in the interim. He does have a weak heart.”

He was clearly pleased at my use of 'our client' rather than 'my client', judging from his slight smile.

“I do not see what he expects you to do about it, though”, he said.

“Presumably he hopes that I can find some evidence of his brother's perfidy”, I said, “so the latter can be persuaded to cease his activities. Would you be able to accompany me when I go down there?”

He smiled.

“I would be delighted”, he said.

“Good.”

MDCCCLXXX

The following day we departed from Fenchurch Street Station in a city still wreathed in the seemingly endless fog which seemingly felt the need to stay with us the length of our journey on the London, Tilbury & Southend Railway. We finally arrived at Beaumont Halt where after some effort we procured a cab to take us the rest of the way to the Priory. We passed through the tiny hamlet of Beaumont – all four cottages of it! – which lay on a hill overlooking a Thames that we could not see but could definitely (and unfortunately) smell. 

On our arrival at the Priory we found the place all a-bustle. An officious-looking constable came out of the front door to wave us away.

“We don't need no more sightseers!” he snapped. 

“Mr. Zebediah Wriothesley was expecting us this morning”, I replied crisply. “Is there a problem, constable?”

The policeman eyed me warily. I could perhaps understand that; I did not always look my best when we were out. Although I had been annoyed when Watson had had to explain to one overly officious railway conductor that he had not for some reason taken a tramp into first-class. I was not that bad!

“House-keeper said he was expecting some toff from the smoke”, the policeman said rudely. “I suppose you can.....”

“Constable!”

I looked up, relieved to see the familiar tall figure of Gregson. The constable looked distinctly put out at his arrival but said nothing and sloped off, presumably to find someone else who he could be rude to.

“Come in, gentlemen”, Gregson said, ushering us through the door. “Sergeant Pelham is in charge of the case as this is his patch but the victim asked me here, presumably for much the same reason that he asked you.”

“Victim?” I asked. 

Gregson nodded.

“Mr. Zebediah Wriothesley was found dead by his valet at nine o' clock this morning”, he said gravely.

Watson was clearly stunned by that. I wished that I had been, but I had had a feeling that something might happen before we could get here.

“I do not see why he would employ a sergeant from a central London police-station when he had his own constabulary to hand”, my friend said as we entered. 

Gregson grinned.

“He came to our station before he called at your place”, he said. “He wanted to check you out and see if you were all he had been told about.”

“By whom?” I asked, surprised at that.

“His cleaning-lady works at the station where they had the Ricoletti case a few years back”, Gregson offered. “Small world, eh? She moved to Carminster just down the road to be nearer her sick mother. When Mr. Zeb wanted an investigator she told him about your solving that case.”

“Small world indeed!” Watson muttered.

“How did Mr. Zebediah die?” I asked as we entered the lounge and sat down.

A butler brought Gregson a coffee and quietly whispered to him that he would fetch two more for us, which was good of him. The sergeant waited until the fellow had returned with our drinks and had left.

“Heart-attack”, he said. _“Allegedly.”_

“You believe otherwise”, I said.

“I know that he had a heart condition”, our friend said, “but there is something about the case that seems fishy. That and I cannot stand his git of a brother!”

MDCCCLXXX

I had wondered if our level-headed friend might have been somewhat harsh in his assessment of Mr. Zechariah Wriothesley, but after only a few minutes with the fellow I revised that opinion' to 'undeservedly generous'. The younger Mr. Wriothesley was an unctuous little fellow, a bald-headed oik just oozing fake sympathy for a late brother whose estate he would be responsible for during the next five years. I felt certain that he would take full advantage of that fact and rather hoped that he was indeed guilty.

“So, so sad”, he said wrapping his hands around each other. “Poor dear Zebediah. But then he always did have a weak heart. It runs in the family, you know.”

I nodded sympathetically and wondered at the chances of someone giving this annoying fellow a sudden shock.... damnation, Watson!

“Did he talk to you about the apparition?” I asked, thinking that my friend had a whole lot to answer for.

“I am afraid that I do not believe in ghosts”, Mr. Wriothesley said smiling faintly. “My brother always did have an over-active imagination.”

“Quite”, I said, standing up. “I am sure that Sergeants Gregson and Pelham will do everything in their power to bring the investigation to a swift conclusion. It was however rather unfortunate that your late brother chose this particular weekend to call on my services.”

“What services might those be?” Mr. Wriothesley inquired squinting at me over his curious half-moon spectacles.

“I am a consulting-detective, sir.”

The fellow definitely visibly flinched. Interesting.

“It is just that your brother promised to put us up for one night”, I said, “and it fitted in perfectly in that our land-lady is having minor repair work done to our rooms. I had promised her that we would not return until late Sunday evening.....”

“Think nothing of it”, Mr. Wriothesley declared. “Of course we shall be delighted to put you up for tonight. It is the least I can do to honour dear Zebediah's memory.”

I bowed.

“Thank you, sir.”

MDCCCLXXX

“I did not know there was renovation work being done on our rooms this weekend”, Watson said later when we were walking in the garden.

“There is not”, I said. “I wanted to look further into this case. Gregson may have his failings but he has good instincts. If he suspects foul play then it is most definitely worth investigating.”

We entered the cloister and walked to the door of the chapel. When we reached the door I drew out a huge old key but did not immediately open it. Instead I ran my hand up the hinges of the door.

_Aha!_

“Interesting”, I muttered.

“What?” he asked. 

I unlocked the door.

“What do you hear?” I asked as I pushed it open.

He listened carefully but could hear nothing. But then that was because there was nothing to hear.

“Nothing”, he said plaintively.

“Sometimes there is something in nothing”, I said. “This is one of only three keys to the chapel and was always kept in the possession of the late Mr. Zebediah Wriothesley. The second is held by his lawyer who always locks it away with his client's documents in his safe, and the third was in the possession of his heir away at school.”

“That means no-one else could have entered the building”, he reasoned. “Unless the lawyer was in on it.”

I looked at him thoughtfully then ushered him back outside where I gestured to a small side-door next to the chapel door.

“That is the only other way out”, I said. “A small room used by the chapel's own priest in times past. It is currently occupied by the groundsman while his own house is being repaired.”

“Did he hear or see anything?” he asked.

“No”, I said. “He was woken up when Mr. Zebediah came down to check out what was happening, but could not help. His room does have a window but as he sleeps not far from the door it seems unlikely that anyone could have left the cloister that way without waking him.”

He clearly did not see where I was going with all this, but at that moment a cab pulled up outside the main door and disgorged a small figure who was barely visible through the light mist. The constable on duty put an arm around the arrival and led him inside.

“That must be young Master Wilton Farnsworth”, Watson said. “Gregson said he was going to fetch the lad back from his school. He does not look much of a lordling to me.”

“A fine home-coming for the boy”, I observed. “I should like to speak with the housekeeper alone, if that is all right. Could you take a walk and meet me back here in an hour? Carminster is as Gregson said about a mile to the south; you might go and buy some toiletries there to make our stay here a little more comfortable.”

He was surprised (and clearly not a little peeved) at being dismissed in this way but he nodded and walked off into the mist. I headed for the housekeeper's room, after which I had some searching to do.

MDCCCLXXX

“Was your talk with the housekeeper informative?” he asked me as we sat in his room later.

“Look in the drawer by the fire and see what I found”, I said, fiddling with a recalcitrant cuff-link. 

He did and extracted a single red satin glove. I could see exactly when it hit him.

“You found the priest's clothes!” he exclaimed.

“I found all that remains of them”, I corrected. “The rest were almost certainly burnt.” 

“But how did you know where to look?” he asked.

I finally forced the cuff-link into place and turned to him.

“I found it in the one place where I knew to look for it”, I said cryptically, before starting for the door.

I could actually _feel_ that pout!

MDCCCLXXX

Dinner was a tense affair with Mr. Zechariah Wriothesley clearly on poor terms with his new charge. I knew that it had to be difficult for the boy; all that money but he had to yield control over it to someone who he very both distrusted and disliked. But then things were rarely what they seemed, especially when money was involved. The love of it may not have been the root of _all_ evil as the Good Book claimed, but it was certainly responsible for a fair amount.

Gregson reappeared the following morning having very generously gone to collect some documents that I had asked him for. I went for a walk after lunch – there had been chocolate trifle for dessert so Watson was having a short nap as he had devoured both my portion and his – and when we met in the cloister soon afterwards he saw my contented look and asked him what was afoot.

“Twelve inches”, I said looking puzzled. “You told me that yourself!”

He glared at me for my excellent sardonicity.

“I meant, have there been any developments?” he growled.

“If Sergeant Gregson can successfully motivate the local constabulary to co-operate”, I said with a smile, “then I expect to provide you with a murderer by this evening.”

“I thought you said that you knew who it was?” he challenged.

“My knowing and my being able to prove are two different things”, I said. “But if all goes to plan dinner tonight should be quite interesting.”

Indeed it was.

MDCCCLXXX

Gregson arrived back at just after four o' clock with confirmation of what I had suspected. He and Sergeant Pelham both sat down to dinner with us and I mentioned that Watson and I would be departing on the evening train directly afterwards.

“We shall miss you”, Mr. Zechariah Wriothesley said insincerely. “Will we not, Wilton?”

The teenager huffed. I smiled to myself. 

“It has been a fascinating case”, I said, helping myself to potatoes. “I am aware that modern crime-fiction writers are quite fond of murder disguised as a heart-attack, but in real-life it is surprisingly rare.”

They all stared at me.

“Murder?” Mr. Zechariah Wriothesley said at last.

“You of all people should not look surprised”, I said reprovingly. “You killed him, after all.”

I thought (hoped) for a moment that the villain was going to follow his brother out of this world. Unfortunately he recovered.

“That”, he sniffed”, “is a scurrilous and baseless accusation, sir.”

“Hardly baseless as I can prove it”, I said dryly. “And certainly not scurrilous as it is quite true.” I put down the potato-bowl and looked around the table. “Pass me the salt please, Nathan.”

“All right”, the teenager said, handing it over.

I smiled at him and waited; I could see Mr. Zechariah Wriothesley putting his head in his hands. Far too late, the boy realized his mistake.

“Who is Nathan?” he said quickly. 

I turned to the two sergeants. 

“Gentlemen”, I said, “allow me to present Mr. Nathaniel Wriothesley, second son to the gent... to the _personage_ at the far end of this table.”

The boy looked terrified, and stared at his father.

“You fool!” Mr. Zechariah Wriothesley ground out. “You bloody fool!”

“It was well-planned”, I said. “When he learned that Zebediah Wriothesley was looking for a possible heir his brother first offered his own elder son, knowing because of the rift between them that that such an offer would be flatly refused. He then did some 'research' to discover a distant cousin whose parents had died and was in danger of being dispatched to the workhouse in Southend. The two brothers rarely met so the victim could not know what his other nephew looked like. Master Wilton Farnsworth _alias_ Master Nathaniel Wriothesley duly settled in to the life of heir to a great estate, and might in time have made a decent job of it.”

“Except of course, his father was not minded to give him the chance. Knowing that if the boy inherited before his majority then he himself would get control of the estate – and I am sure it would have been well milked if not all but destroyed in those short years – he arranges for the visions of a man crossing the cloisters to the old chapel, the 'ghost' of a Scarlet Friar.”

“But how did the 'ghost' disappear?” Watson asked. 

I turned to him.

“You remember that when I pushed open the chapel door, I asked you what you heard.”

“I did not hear anything”, he said.

“Exactly”, I said. “We had been told that the door was used once a month for services yet it did not creak at all. An examination of the hinges confirmed that it had been well oiled so that it could open silently.”

I stared icily at Mr. Zechariah Wriothesley and his son, who had edged round to table to be close to his murderous father. The boy had little sense; I would have gone in the opposite direction from the look on this father's face, especially with cutlery on the table. Gregson must have thought the same as he edged nearer the pair of them.

“On the night of the murder you made sure that one of the maids took a message to the groundsman”, I told the villain. “You waited outside the door then appeared behind her in your costume just as she was leaving. She screamed and fainted, and you had time to go through the chapel door and lock it with your son's key before the groundsman could emerge to investigate. You changed and slipped out of the back of the chapel from where you emerged 'from a walk'. Having calmed the maid and reported the matter to your brother you returned to the chapel, then retrieved your costume and went to your room. And that was where you made your sole mistake.”

I produced the single red glove with a flourish. Mr. Wriothesley turned even paler.

“You doubtless planned to destroy the costume”, I said. “However you were disturbed and had to push the thing into the chest that stands at the foot of the bed. Once you were alone again you burnt it – but by the workings of Providence you missed one of the red gloves which remained in the chest to proclaim your guilt. I think, sir, that you will find it hard to explain how a Scarlet Friar's costume glove came to be in _your_ bedroom.”

I noted that Sergeant Pelham was now blocking the door. Impressive; I had not even seen him move over to it.

“You then went to your brother's room and killed him”, I continued, “I would suggest by smothering.”

“But why did the doctor they called not spot that?” Watson asked.

“Because he was not looking for it”, I said. “He was not taken to a body and asked 'how did this man die?'. He was shown a body and asked 'did this man die of a heart-attack?' Knowing that the patient had a weak heart he readily concurred. But”... and the his face lit up triumphantly, “he did say one damning thing in his report.”

“What?” I asked.

“The victim had a small goose-feather in his mouth – _from his own pillow!”_

I looked meaningfully at Mr. Wriothesley.

“A jury will not hang me on that!” he sneered.

I suddenly turned on the villain's son, who quailed before him.

“Gregson, Pelham”, I said slowly. “I think that you should take young Master Wriothesley in for questioning. Perhaps you might point out to him in detail just what happens to convicted criminals of his tender age in our modern gaols. They are not nice places _at all!”_

The boy jumped as he suddenly became aware of how close Gregson was to him.

“Father?” he quavered.

“Come with us, sonny”, Gregson grinned menacingly. “It's going to be a long, long night for the likes of you!”

MDCCCLXXX

There is little more to be said. Master Nathaniel Wriothesley confessed all and tried to lay the blame fully on his father for his uncle's murder. The boy was sentenced to twenty years in jail at the end of which time he immediately left the country for parts unknown. His father pleaded innocent but twelve good men and true did not believe him, and he swung from the gallows soon after. One Mr. Ryland Wriothesley, a real distant cousin and, oddly enough, from France, inherited Beaumont Priory but sold it on immediately rather than live there and the house passed outside the family, I know not to whom. It was sold again and knocked down for a housing development some years later, turning Beaumont into quite a small town.

Christmas that year was quiet (and mercifully free from any further 'preternatural' happenings!) but in the lull before the New Year Watson received a letter. I recognized the post-mark and smiled.

“Your first payment for the “Gloria Scott” story?” I asked.

“Yes”, he said. “It will appear in six instalments in the magazine starting next month. And they have been very generous.” 

He looked uncertainly across at me and I knew what he was going to say.

“You did all the work in writing it”, I said, “plus as you know I am financially secure. You should add it to your savings for when you meet the future Mrs. Watson.”

I left to go to my room, feeling oddly depressed all of a sudden. Of course someone like Watson was bound to get married sooner rather than later. He was an attractive young gentleman who, once he was well established in his career, would be a very good catch for any lady. 

So why did that thought lie so heavy in my gut?

MDCCCLXXX

_Notes:_   
_1) Henry Wriothesley (1573-1624) who became earl on his father's death in 1581. A troubled character, his involvement in the Essex Plot of 1601 led to the death sentence but Elizabeth commuted this to life imprisonment. This turned out to be a doubly good deal as when she died and James the First acceded two years later, Southampton was immediately let out. He was survived by only one son, Thomas, with whom the title died out in 1667 as he had only daughters and the title was one of those that could only pass to males._

MDCCCLXXX


End file.
